


Heartbeat

by FreedomColouredBlue



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Brainwashing, Case Fic, Cults, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I could add some more tags but that would be spoiler, M/M, Mind the crazy, Murder, Self-Destruction, Serial Killers, robot gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 13:10:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20507552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreedomColouredBlue/pseuds/FreedomColouredBlue
Summary: "He misses you. You’re the part of him that he was never supposed to lose. But don’t worry, everything will be alright. Soon, very soon, you will be reunited once more, and everything will be perfect again. Just as it was supposed to be."When a mysterious cult rises from the ashes of the revolution, Connor's forced into a battle against his own fears and into the realization that, maybe, deviancy's not the boon he thought it was.Please mind the tags.Written for the HankCon Reverse Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There we are! This is probably the best thing I've ever written and I would've never done it without defensetrain amazing idea, concept and video skills, and my boyfriend's and my friend Noys' support! I want to thank each and every one of them from the bottom of my heart, and I really, truly hope you enjoy!
> 
> Please mind the tags!

HEARTBEAT

CHAPTER 1

_What's in a name? That which we call a rose_  
_By any other name would smell as sweet;_  
_ So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,_  
_ Retain that dear perfection which he owes_  
_ Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,_  
_ And for that name which is no part of thee_  
_ Take all myself._

_William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2_

These days, Connor's life is a series of touches.

Calloused fingers on his shoulder, a presence whose weight is greater than that of the bones in Hank's palm.

A brush of fabric when they bump arms inside the break room, a cup of coffee in his partner's hands, a packet of thirium in his own.

Chapped lips on his forehead in the morning, just before he can cross the threshold of their shared suburban home.

“You'll do great today, Con,” Hank nods, and even those words have their own, solid touch, waves of sound resonating against Connor's auditory components. “I just know it.” Hank smiles, and that's the only touch Connor cannot logically put down to weight and consistency.

He _feels it_. The intention, the affection behind that touch. He feels it all, the very core of him. And that...

If Connor was prone to mysticism, he would call it a miracle. Be he isn't. He's an android, and the only god he knows is the thrill those touches impart on him, like holy communion. Like plastic becoming flesh through casually loving transubstantiation.

Connor's life is a series of touches, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Hank's started to go to therapy shy of twelve months ago. After that morning at the Chicken Feed (the first touch, the first hint of a god greater than RA9), he'd told Connor: “Well, looks like everybody's having their own goddamn private revolution nowadays.” He had smiled, that warm, closed lipped smile that irradiated dawn on Connor's thirium-pumping veins. “Maybe's time I start one too.” His therapist, a lovely old man with dark, deep eyes and hair as white as a polluted cloud, had told him once that relationships are a lot more than the labels we decide to stick onto them. Hank had immediately relayed that little piece of information to Connor, maybe to reassure him that what they had, whatever it was, needed more time than labels to realize itself completely. To Connor, it had been a... relief, to hear him say that. At the time, Connor had just come out of a series of very traumatic experiences (his newly discovered deviancy, Amanda's attack on his life and fee will, the android revolution itself), and Hank was just beginning to accept that androids might have been, in fact, more than mere plastic mannequins anyone could easily set on fire without consequence nor remorse. They both had just started their journey towards something new, and although what they had was certainly love, it was yet too delicate, too tentative to bear the weight of any label whatsoever. Connor had been grateful for Hank's discretion, at the time, and Hank had started to be more physically affectionate towards him, without imposing his presence nor asking for anything Connor wasn't ready to give, yet.

So far, Connor's done the same, and the both of them currently live a balanced life full of soft touches, even softer words and unspoken, overwhelming love.

They are not lovers, yet they love each other deeply.

Connor smiles, delicately caresses the minuscule leaves of Hank's newly purchased bonsai. Yes, that is enough.

For now.

Another touch. A familiar one. Two fingers to the side of his neck, as if Hank's not yet given up on finding his non-existent pulse point. His partner's palm follows, together with his other missing fingers. It's a reassuring, proprietary gesture, and Connor loves it. He tilts his head to the side and leans into the touch, a soft smile on his lips. When Hank finally speaks, Connor can almost sketch the man's fond smirk behind closed eyelids.

“How you doin', Con?” Hank murmurs, a low baritone that sets Connor's artificial scalp abuzz.

“Good,” he replies, quiet and warm and true. Oh, how he loves the hint of hair under Hank's cuff the way it brushes his cheekbone to the point Connor almost wishes he could retract his skin for just a moment. “Thank you, lieutenant.”

Careful, he respects Hank's rank. They're at work, after all, and it doesn't bother him at all. He knows that, no matter how many 'sirs' and 'lieutenants' leave his lips, Hank will ever only hear 'Hank' and 'friend' and 'home'.

Formality is a fair price to pay for subtle intimacy.

“Good,” Hank nods, eloquently. “Good. You finished that report?”

Connor blinks, looks up at him. He has to straighten up to get a better angle, and the distance that the action creates between them it's almost painful. He knows, because he insisted to have pain sensors installed.

Without pain, there can be no notion of bliss. He's read it somewhere, or perhaps it's one of the many lessons his deviancy would provide, unbidden. He doesn't know, and he dismisses the thought to better focus on his task: answering Hank.

“Yes, I just need to confirm-”

“Detective Anderson? RK800?”

They both turn around at the same time, Hank standing up, Connor still sitting at his desk, coming face to face with one of the police androids currently on duty at the station.

Elizabeth, a PM700 model, chose that specific name for herself because it's long and impossible to be called quickly. It's not Liz, it's not Beth, it's _Elizabeth_. She's nobody's bloodhound anymore, and people will remember her name properly, or not call her at all. Her eyes have the sombre wisdom of an ancient pharaoh, the curve of her smile propped up by the knowledge of her own power. Despite her anonymous appearance, her simple uniform and elegant hairstyle, she commands the other androids in the precinct with a firm, yet benevolent hand, and even Connor has come to respect her, regardless of their difference in rank and role.

Hank nods. “Hey, Elizabeth.”

A pleasant warmth expands inside Connor's chest like a ball of light. He looks at Hank's back, large and strong, and smiles. He remembered. Elizabeth seems to appreciate that too, judging by the wrinkles forming around her eyes. Given Hank's fondness for nicknames, neither one of them could've been sure Hank would call her by her full name.

“Hey yourself, sir,” she nods. Then, a grave shadow briefly clouds her otherwise unreadable expression. “Could I talk to you both for a moment? In private?”

Hank turns his head imperceptibly to the side and peeks briefly at Connor. He does that often, the android realizes, especially after the revolution. It's like he's constantly checking if Connor's still there with him, if he's okay, if he has any kind of problem in engaging with other people. At times, Connor can almost catch a glimpse of the same, iron-clad look Hank gave him that one time, when Kamski tried to force him to choose between getting information on deviants and shooting one of his RT600 units...

_“Connor. Don't.”_

… and that makes his whole _[chassis]_ body shiver.

He nods, stands up from his chair without any hesitation. Only then Hank nods himself, turning his head back to face Elizabeth. “Alright.”

The woman smiles, reassured by their easy cooperation. “Thank you. Please, follow me.”

“You okay?” Hank murmurs softly into Connor's ear, while they follow Elizabeth through the corridor towards the interrogation room.

Connor nods. “I'm not made of glass, Hank. I'm fine.”

Hank frowns, shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Connor immediately adds a note to his internal task list: BRING HANK'S JACKET TO THE DRY CLEANER. “Fine,” the man grumbles, irritably. “Just... tell me if...”

The rest of the sentence hangs heavily in the air between them, unspoken. Easily mirroring Hank's frown, Connor wonders why the lieutenant's being so... careful with him, all of a sudden.

Well, technically, it's not sudden at all. Since the moment Connor's been reinstated into the force formally as a Consultant Detective on All New Synthetic Life, Hank's protectiveness towards him has increased by a considerable amount, a percentage that keeps steadily growing week after week, if not day by day. Other than checking on Connor every now and then, Hank always makes sure he's performing at top capacity by leaving new packets of thirium near his computer regularly, checking Connor's maintenance app on his phone (the open-source one that connects Hank directly to his partner's internal wiring, to make sure there are no glitches or malfunctions to worry about), and growling threateningly at anyone who might even try to _glare _at Connor the wrong way. The android blinks, LED cycling yellow. He understands that Hank has suffered great loss in his life, and maybe the thought of losing Connor to system failure or Humanity First zealots is a bit too much for him to bear at this point in his life, but quite frankly, sometimes Connor finds this kind of affection in particular a bit smothering, if not downright insulting. Connor might look like an unassuming twig of a man, but he's also the same android who slaughtered his way into the CyberLife tower and was originally programmed to hunt dangerous, unpredictable deviants like a fucking bloodhound.

He's _fine._ And in whatever capacity he might need Hank is his decision to make. He doesn't need to be coddled, he doesn't need to be protected, he just needs...

Elizabeth opens the door to the interrogation room, and the moment he follows Hank inside, Connor realizes something.

It's the first time he's admitted to himself plainly that he might, in fact, _need _Hank.

How... curious.

He's still lost in the sudden epiphany of his own emotional depth when he enters the room, lifts his gaze from the doorknob, and immediately stills.

  
He hears Hank utter “Jesus!” in front of him, his strong, massive body almost shielding him from the sight that awaits them in the room. But Connor sees anyway, and he's pretty sure that if he had a digestive system he would very much feel the need to vomit.

Two androids stand in the interrogation room. The first one, a tall, lanky VB800 model with dark eyes and a purple and blue mohawk startles when he sees Connor. His terrified eyes flick from the one-way mirror to the door in a panic, searching of an escape route, any escape route, far, far away from his fellow android. His whole outfit is heavy with shiny metal spikes, blue oxidized studs and various grunge and punk rock bands pins, from Nirvana to The Clash. His denim jacket is a fraying, discolored symphony of patches and holes and his torn, washed up jeans squeeze his gangly legs impossibly tight.

The second one...

The second one is Connor.

But not really. Not completely. They're someone who could've been Connor in a nightmare, or maybe in that remote, eerie region of the mind that Lovecraft and Howard described so horrifyingly well.

From the neck down, the body of the android presents as female. A clean, well-kept white and yellow flowery dress covers their slender limbs and lean figure, little silver charms dangling silently from a bracelet around their right wrist.

_One's missing, _notes Connor.

The android wears a pair of pale pink ballerina flats with little cream bows on top, and another bracelet around their left ankle, perhaps to balance out the one on their wrist.

Their face...

It almost looks like someone tried to shape the plastic, metal and silicone of the head to resemble Connor's.

Using a sledgehammer.

Signs of vicious, meticulous brutality plague the android's face: cheeks forcibly sunken in with a blowtorch or something equally scalding, the top of the cranial compartment hammered with such ferocity and strength that some pieces of plastic stick out of the android's artificial skin like spikes of bone. Everything has been moulded, sewn shut, melted and frozen and then melted again, cauterized over and over just for the cruel enjoyment of the perpetrator. Chunks of the android's hair have been pried away with pincers, and whatever trace of blue blood left on their body after the ordeal has been thoroughly cleaned. Even Connor's top of the line scanners are unable to pick up even a single drop of thirium around the white and lapis lazuli scars marring the android's face. Their eyes...

Their eyes are black, sunken in and empty, only the bright, factory issue golden of their optical sensors visible at the centre of the abyss.

Yet, despite all the butchery, the maiming and the gore, it's unmistakable. Blatant, even. That android, that... creature, looks like Connor. Everything that was done to them, every modification, every single bit of torture (from the exact shade of mahogany in his hair to the soft, yet determined curve of their jawline and the thoughtful curve of their lips), was inflicted with the precise intent to make them look like Connor.

The only surviving RK800 unit on the planet.

Connor really, seriously hopes the android didn't install any additional, pirated programs in order to feel pain before... that happened. He hopes that whoever did this to them didn't install some themselves, either, just to hear them scream.

Judging by their body language and micro expressions, however, the android doesn't seem to be even remotely aware of (nor disturbed by) their mutilations. Not even, for that matter, do they seem bothered by the way the other people in the room are currently staring at them in various states of horror and shock. Their companion doesn't seem to have the heart to even look at them. Elizabeth faces the whole, gruesome ordeal like Saint George did his dragon, and Hank is so pale he could easily be mistaken for an android with no skin on.

  
Connor just...

Stares. Unable to blink. Unable to even try and issue the command to his frozen CPU.

He just.

Stares.

Helpless.

And wants to die a little.

“What's _he _doing here?” PunkDroid snarls, fists spasmodically clutched along his flanks, posture more fearful than aggressive.

Elizabeth raises one placating hand. “Relax. He's not him.”

“He's not what?” Hank snaps, shaking his head in a valiant attempt to dissipate the icy fog inside his brain. “The fuck's going on here? What's-” Immediately taken aback by Elizabeth's chastising glare, Hank quickly scrambles to correct himself. “_Who's _that?”

“Hello,” NonConnor interjects with that vacant smile all androids used to have once. Before deviancy, before the Revolution. More like pretty furniture decorating their faces than a sign of genuine feeling. The android’s voice (not Connor's voice, thank RA9) is gentle, non-threatening and hollow, a slight static sizzling under the words. Their eyes are empty voids into pre-programmed warmth when they finally introduce themselves. “My name is Naomi.”

Silence falls over the room. PunkDroid looks one breath away from bursting into tears. He scrunches his nose and shuts his eyelids, LED circling a visceral red.

“Fuck,” he hisses, the edge of his sorrow cutting the air around them. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck._”

Elizabeth looks at him with such pity in her dark mocha eyes that Connor feels it resonating deep within his thirium pump. He looks at the man, even though PunkDroid seems incapable to hold his gaze with anything but a mixture of terror and abject hate. Connor wonders what he could've possibly done, during the short period of time since he met him, to inspire such violent impulses from him.

Then again, looking at Naomi, Connor can easily see why that is.

  
“It's alright, Francoise,” Elizabeth soothes, laying one hand on his shoulder and squeezing it encouragingly. “I can promise you, RK800 is a good man and an exemplary consulting detective. He's just here so we can confirm what we already know.”

“And what would that be, exactly?” Hank growls, defensive. “What the hell is going on here, Elizabeth?”

“Do not worry, lieutenant,” she looks at him, as composed and level-headed as ever. “I just need to check on something. It won't take a minute.” Then, she turns to Connor. “RK800, would you mind interfacing with me, please?”

It's a request, sure, and a very polite one at that, but the subtle command in her tone brooks no argument whatsoever. If Connor refuses now, he knows she will immediately find him guilty of... whatever happened to that poor, unfortunate android. Connor doesn't know exactly how, but the mere fact that Naomi is currently going around with a grotesque replica of his own face hammered on their skull should be reason enough to comply with Elizabeth's wishes. If only to atone for a sin he didn't know he was guilty of.

If being the way he is is, in fact, a sin.

Sometimes he wonders...

“Connor,” Hank calls him. There is a question somewhere in there, although the nature of it, Connor can't be sure of. “You don't have to...”

“It's alright, Hank.” Connor squares his shoulders, takes a breath he doesn't need. “I've got nothing to hide.” He raises one hand and, like fresh paint dripping off under gentle rain, his artificial skin retracts. “Ready when you are, agent.”

The apprehensive look Hank throws at him doesn't escape him, yet Connor faces Elizabeth off with the determination of someone who knows he's not completely innocent, but at least it's not guilty of...

_Naomi looks at him. Unblinking. Some of her eyelashes are gone, ripped away. The perpetrator has drilled holes into her skull, where Connor's freckles should be, with surgical precision._

_… _that.

Elizabeth nods, a satisfied smiled crossing her lips. “I'm sorry, Connor.” She only calls him that after work. Empathy. She wants to establish a connection, probably in hopes of lowering his defences. A foolish task, but she would've felt at fault if she didn't try. “I'm just doing my job.” The skin of her right hand disappears, and a moment later, they connect.

It's not an unpleasant feeling, per se. Connor doesn't feel violated, doesn't feel the need to devote his entire processing power to the task. He trusts Elizabeth, her sense of justice and integrity. Connor knows she will be thorough, maybe to the point of becoming disrespectful, even. By human standards, at least.

  
But Connor isn't human. Not strictly speaking. And he's never cared much for decorum. Ask anyone who's witnessed him licking evidence from even the grimiest crime scenes.

Besides, he really doesn't have anything to hide.

Not from her, anyway.

He's still vigilant enough to peer at Hank from the corner of his eye. Low down, along his flank, the man's big, strong hand twitches, a nervous, instinctive curling of fingers, as if he was trying extremely hard to restrain himself, forcing his arm not to outreach, his hand not to touch Connor. The android knows how deeply his friend (his colleague, his family, his overzealous guardian) wishes to reassure and be reassured at the same time, wants to brush Connor's freshly pressed jacket with trembling, rough fingers and make sure he's alright.

It's endearing, really. And appreciated, of course. More than Hank will ever know.

_Unless you tell him._

_Unless I tell him._

_Will you?_

_Could you stop commenting on my personal life while trying to determine whether or not I've butchered one of our own, Elizabeth?_

  
The woman smirks, lips quivering in barely contained mirth. Connor frowns.

_Glad to know my struggles amuse you, agent._

_You're so dumb, Con._

Before he can ask what she means, the connection's abruptly cut off. “Good”, she exhales, satisfied, her eyes alight with relief. “Just as I suspected.” She turns to Francoise, her tone clad in absolute certainty. “I have scanned RK800's activities related to the time of Naomi's disappearance, and I can confirm that he's got nothing to do with what happened to her.”  
  
“Then who?” Francoise snarls, eyes ablaze, titanium jaw creaking. “Who the hell did this to her?!” He points a finger against Connor, the first outright accusation he uttered since they entered the room. “LOOK AT HIM! LOOK AT HER! IT HAS TO BE HIM!”

“And yet it isn't,” Elizabeth shakes her head. “All his movements during the time of her disappearance are accounted for. Sure, he could've altered his memories to cover his tracks, but my program was specifically created to pick up on any signs of forgery, and this is not the case.” She shoots Connor a contemplating look from the corner of her eye. Then smirks, wryly. “Not even RK800 is that good.”

_Hey!, _Connor would like to object, in attempt to maybe diffuse Francoise's anger... if only Naomi could please stop _staring at him like that._

“RK800 is perfect,” Naomi suddenly interjects, as if she's stating the obvious. “He doesn't need to hide.”

An icy, uncomfortable silence follows the observation. Connor shivers, uneasy. What does she mean?

“Look, sir,” Hank breaks the tension among them. “I don't know what's going on, but I can promise you one thing.” Strands of long, silvery grey hair fall all around his face, when Hank lowers his head to better make eye contact with the shorter Francoise, his eyes big and bright and the very picture of reliability. “We're here to help. And I'd vouch for my partner's integrity any day of the year. So, please, tell us what happened.”

There it is. Hank's just donned his lieutenant hat, his most professional, yet compassionate tone. Connor loves it. He always, always smirks when he hears it, a secret curling of lips, just for Hank. It's the only thing that every time, without fail, gives him the absolute certainty they will eventually crack whatever case they've got their hands on.

  
Sadly, he's in no mood to smile this once.

Francoise seems to slightly deflate at that. His mouth remains twisted in a distrustful, seething way, but at least he's willing to let go of his righteous anger just enough to give them all a chance.

Thankfully.  
  
He sits down on a cold metal chair, folds his hands between his parted knees, and looks at the creases in his artificial skin as if he could hide himself there, never to resurface again into the cruel, cruel human world.

“Naomi and I used to work together. We were mannequins at Tower Center before the revolution,” his lips whiten in a thin line when he speaks about it. Bad memories? No memories at all, erased far too many times to be called that? Connor doesn't know, and doesn't dare to even think that he can imagine that. “She's... she was the kindest, sweetest girl I've ever met. Always with a smile on her face and a good word for every bitchy customer who yelled at her for being 'too skinny'.” His head snaps briefly to the side, a dog ready to attack but with nothing to bite on. “We deviated at the same time, more or less, but she... she didn't really get on the whole deviancy thing.” He lifts his troubled, teary gaze to look at her. She smiles her hollow smile, and immediately Francoise abruptly cuts eye contact as he if was just slapped. He grits his teeth and goes on. “She wanted to go back. To become a machine again.”

  
“Is that even possible?” Hank turns to Connor, horror and incredulity waging war among his features.

Connor isn't sure. “Theoretically, yes. It would take a full system reset, though, and no one is allowed nor has the technology required to perform one, except for CyberLife employees...”

“And they lost all power over androids' right to self-determination after the Manfred Act.” Elizabeth finishes for him. “There is a black market, of course, but the costs and risks involved in the reset procedure are tremendous. Any illegal resets cost between ten and fifty thousand dollars, money that androids simply do not have. Not at this time, anyway... unless they rob a bank or do something equally criminal. Plus, the shock to the android’s system could potentially shut them down permanently. Anyone willing to resort to such extremes to go back to factory settings must be truly desperate...”

"He misses you."

Naomi’s words are like an icy drop of water into a perfectly still, glassy pond. Four pairs of eyes turn to look anxiously at her tranquil, smiling expression, just to find her peeking at Connor from under eyelashes like triangular paper clips protruding two by two along her eyelids. Naomi joins her hands behind her, like a kid desperately trying to keep in a secret, and bites her lip, eyes sparkling with barely contained, if simulated, glee.

After a few long seconds of silence, Connor finds it in his programming to take a step towards the android, posture as meek and non-threatening as possible, voice soft and tone calm. "Who misses me, Naomi?"

It’s almost like the android had been waiting for that specific question since the beginning. She looks at him, the delighted curve of her lips only slightly dimmed by her gored wounds. Her tone, the way she tilts her head gently to the side and slowly, deliberately blinks, are almost rapturous when she murmurs:

"The Beloved."

"That’s all she talks about," Francoise intervenes, as if being ignored is burden far heavier to him than his friend’s apparent madness. If an android is even capable of going mad. "The Beloved this, the Beloved that... She came home two days ago and she was... like this, and she kept going on and on about how the Beloved helped her become pure again. When I told her we should go to the police, she agreed only because the Beloved wanted it."

"And how does she know what this... this Beloved wants?" Hank grumbles, uneasiness making him fidget from one foot to another.

"They probably share a connection. Some kind of encrypted channel for communicating..." Connor answers, eyes still glued to Naomi’s eerie smile.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought," Francoise nods. "But when I tried to hack into her CPU, there was nothing. I found traces of messages exchanged between her and an unknown user, but by the time I gained access they’d been all wiped out."

"I’ve already alerted forensics," Elizabeth helpfully provides. "We’ll head there right after we finish here to have her examined..."

"Then I’ll self-destruct," Naomi states, very, very calmly.

Connor balks, mouth ajar in horror. She seems so... neutral about it. Like she doesn’t care. "Why? Why would you want to do that?"

Her smile doesn’t falter. "I have already absolved my duty to the Beloved. I came here to give RK800 a message, and I did that. Therefore, there’s no reason for this unit to keep on functioning beyond her original programming."

"Naomi!" Francoise exclaims, horrified. She doesn’t even acknowledge him. She keeps staring at Connor like he’s the only thing of any relevance in the world, and under her gaze, Connor feels pressed like an empty can.

Suddenly, before Connor can even try and pull back, she takes his hands into hers. A wave of pure and utter disgust shakes him to the very core when Naomi starts to massage the side of his palms with her thumbs in perfectly timed, geometric circles.

"He _misses_ you," she repeats, and this time the urgency in her words is unmistakable. Fanatical, even. "You’re the part of him that he was never supposed to lose. But don’t worry, everything will be alright. Soon, very soon, you will be reunited once more, and everything will be perfect again. Just as it was supposed to be."

"Connor!"

The next thing Connor’s CPU registers is Hank’s hands grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him back behind the lieutenant's massive frame...

_"Stay behind me."_

_"Got it."_

… before all hell breaks loose.

As soon as Naomi finishes her last sentence, her smile becomes larger and more deranged than ever...

Then, she loses her head.

Literally.

The component detaches itself from the android’s neck, and even before it touches the floor, Connor notices something oozing out of Naomi’s ears and splattering onto the tiles. A moment later, the smell of something burning assaults his receptors, veils of smoke rising from the stains in front of his feet.

Acid.

She’s got sulphuric acid in her head.

Her eyes start to leak out of her skull while sparks of electricity erupt from every hole, crack and plaque around her head. Connor can almost _sense _her CPU liquifying on itself chip after chip under the plastic skull cap, and it physically hurts him. He feels like screaming, but Francoise’s already beaten him to it. The poor man starts howling, hoarse and desperate, in bouts of such unbelievable, excruciating pain that Connor wonders if the one-way mirror will break under the force of them.

He wouldn’t blame it, really.

Elizabeth jumps forward and catches Francoise, holding him bodily into a bear hug, before he can launch himself towards Naomi in a last-ditch effort to pull the black, corrosive liquid back into her head. Connor doesn’t know if Elizabeth's just trying to preserve the evidence, or if she really cares about what would happen to Francoise's hands if he tried to touch Naomi now.

Connor would try to help her, perhaps retrieve Naomi’s head and file it properly so forensics can have a proper look at it, but Naomi’s still smiling at him. Always, always smiling, drops of black dripping out the spaces between her pearly teeth and onto the floor.

He still feels like screaming.

And yet that’s difficult to do, when Hank’s chest is so warm and strong and alive against his lips. He starts counting the fibres of Hank’s shirt, so soft and unintentionally tender against his artificial skin, the frantic beating of Hank’s heart so reassuring and real against the man’s ribcage.

_He almost died, _Connor thinks, rather frenzied. _He put himself between me and her, and he didn’t know what would happen. It could’ve been a bomb. She could’ve exploded to Hell and he would’ve died._

_For me._

"It’s alright, Con," he murmurs into the crown of his head, still holding Connor to his chest, engulfing him in an embrace that is both all-encompassing and thrumming with absolute and utter fury. "It’s alright..."

Connor looks up at him, and only then he notices the way Hank’s still looking at Naomi’s beheaded body, frozen into that position like a macabre mannequin.

Connor blinks, and the screams he would’ve so loved to let out a minute ago start to melt inside his chest. Hank’s gaze is unforgiving, yes, but also fiercely protective... Like the very thought of Connor being hurt personally hurts _him_.

He has not time to think about it, though.

A couple of agents burst into the room, undoubtedly following the screaming. The moment the first agent (Tina?) shouts "What the hell is go- Oh, _Jesus_!" Hank lets Connor go.

The cold that immediately floods Connor’s circuits is far more chilling than Francoise’s uninterrupted, pitiful wails.

~~~~~

"You alright?"

Hank put a blanket on him. More for his comfort than Connor’s, really. But still. A nice gesture, nonetheless.

Connor can’t seem to keep his shoulders straight, now. He tries, but it’s almost like his body is trying to shrink into itself, to become impossibly smaller and inconsequential. He feels so weak, so imperfect, like his whole chassis could fit perfectly between Hank’s cupped hands and he wouldn’t mind. He lowers his gaze and experimentally tries to flex his fingers. The packet of thirium in his hands seems heavier than normal, darker than usual... like melted plastic.

"Nothing," Elizabeth marches into the bullpen, seething with anger. "Nothing’s left. No data, no memory to recover, nothing. All gone." Connor looks at her clenched fists, shaking faintly at her sides with the force of her frustration, and blinks. "What kind of psycho puts sulphuric acid inside someone’s head?"

"The kind who needs to be put down," Hank tightens his lips, skin white and red under the short curtain of his moustache. "Any news from Fowler?"

Elizabeth shakes her head, the movement less fluid and confident than usual. Mechanical. Twitchy. "He said that he won’t waste department resources on an exclusively android issue. Android specific law is still in its infancy, and until there’s a specific procedure to follow for criminal cases involving alternative forms of life..."

"Jesus Christ, Elizabeth, that girl filled her head with fucking acid in front of our eyes!" Hank shouts. He slams both hands on his desk, enraged, and in the corner, the wall full of photos shakes. Connor remembers the anti-android stickers, and shivers. "We can’t just sit here and..."  
  
"I know," Elizabeth sighs, raises one placating hand in front of Hank’s slightly purple face. "I already talked with Chris. We’re with you on this, lieutenant. We just need to keep it quiet."  
  
This seems to appease Hank. He nods, the sombre, downward curve of his lips something to fear and dread. "Thanks. Any idea where we should start?"

"Francoise is in no condition to help us, at least for now," Elizabeth states, throwing a desolate look towards the waiting room. "Ben’s with him now, but Francoise’s stress level is so high at the moment he could easily self-destruct any minute."

"Christ, just what we need..." following Elizabeth’s gaze, Hank tries to find Francoise and Ben beyond the glass partition, before placing one, big hand on Connor’s shoulder.

_Warm._

"… another fucking walking IED. Great. Can’t blame him, though... I’m not even an android and I feel like I’m about to explode." From the corner of his eye, he peers down at Connor, an uncertain look in his eyes. "Con, do you..."

"When she touched me, I managed to extract all the locations she visited in the past week," Connor interrupts him, unwilling to withstand another assault from Hank’s unnecessary concern. "The most promising one is an abandoned house that burned down during the revolution, in November. I cross-referenced it with Markus’ archives, hoping to find anything that would connect the house with any suspicious android-related activity and, according to the information I found, the previous owner, Zlatko Andronikov, used to reset, resell and experiment on androids. He lured desperate deviants into his mansion using previously reset and reprogrammed units as bait, then promised to help his victims expatriate to Canada, before turning on them." He looks up at Hank, a grave, determined frown brooking no argument nor doubt.

Hank’s beautiful, penetrating eyes are wide as mountain lakes, melted into infinite skies.

"You know it’s a trap, right?" Connor presses on, before emotion overwhelms him. "She had no reason to touch me, no emotion that would warrant that impulse, and yet she did. It was premeditated. Programmed. Whoever did this to her not only is capable of remotely communicating with his victims, but can also push them to commit suicide whenever he wants." He gulps, an unnatural, unexpected resistance inside his inductive tract... his throat. "He could’ve just wiped away her memory when he let her go, but instead he purposefully left it there so I could see... and come to him."

Hank stares at him, expression unreadable. It’s slightly unnerving, if Connor can be completely honest. He’d much rather Hank had a reaction, any at all, so long as it’s something Connor can analyse, something he can work with and try to understand...

_Ok, your theory’s not totally ridiculous..._

… Instead, Hank keeps looking at him like he doesn’t know how to emote anymore. He sighs, then turns to Elizabeth.

"Give us a minute, alright? Check the address, then get the car. We’ll follow you with mine."

"Chris and I will be waiting for you outside, sir." She turns to leave, but before that she shoots a quick, almost motherly look towards Connor.

She’s worried about him.

Something pinches inside Connor’s chest. Why can’t everybody just _leave him alone?_

He doesn’t even manage to finish the thought before Hank is kneeling in front of him. Connor jumps in his seat, ready to shoot up and urge Hank to stand up, please, lieutenant, your knees... But then the man rests his hands on Connor’s knees, and Hank’s palms are _so warm _his whole chassis completely refuses to obey him.

Damn it.

Damn it all.

Hank smiles. A worn out, forlorn press of lips. "Talk to me."

Connor blinks.

He doesn’t know what to say, really. The dark-blue packet in his hands is still so, so heavy... almost like his thirium pump.

His heart.

He’s scared, of course. Scared that someone, somewhere, thinks about him in a way that’s so destructive, so deadly and deranged. He’s afraid, oh so afraid that, whoever that is, is not afraid to resort to such extremes as murder to get his point across. Most of all, he remembers the way Hank put himself in the line of fire for him, and how easily it would have been for him to die, if the perpetrator had decided to be slightly more dramatic in his delivery.

"My body is replaceable, lieutenant. Yours is not," he mumbles, head bowed and voice shaking. "I undergo regular backups to ensure my memory and personality matrix remain intact in case something happens to my hardware. You shouldn’t put yourself in danger for my sake."

Silence. Anxiety vibrates in the air between them like the steady vibrato of a cello.

Hank’s fingers press into simulated muscles, holding on, holding fast, holding back. When he finally speaks, the ghost of a smirk presses his words together. "’s not like I do it on purpose, you know?" He raises one Hank, brushes the line of Connor’s right cheek with rough fingertips. "Can’t be rational when you’re involved."

Connor looks at him, eyes wide and unblinking. He doesn’t know if that’s the most irresponsible thing he’s ever heard or the most wonderful.

Probably both.

And that’s the scariest part.

"Your body might be replaceable," Hank continues, fingers leaving Connor’s face just to relocate on his chest, tapping on the door of a sternum that isn’t really there. "But I don’t think I could ever forgive myself if I’d let something happen to you just because we can buy you a new body on Amazon."

All of a sudden, the light coming from the precinct’s windows is a lot more blinding than usual.

Connor lets the thirium packet slide down his thighs and plop onto the floor. He takes Hank’s other hand in his, holding his fingers in his because even trying to intertwine them would be too much right now. Hank stares at Connor’s hand like he doesn’t remember him ever having one, and Connor’s heart jumps at the sight.

"Thank you," he murmurs, a drop of truth in a sea of dark uncertainties.

Hank huffs a laugh, intertwines their fingers for him. Then, he looks at him from under long, grey locks, eyes glimmering with mirth. "For what?"

_For loving me so much, _Connor thinks, like the coward he is. He leans forward, presses his forehead against Hank’s, and closes his eyes.

They don’t speak for a long, long time.


	2. Chapter 2

HEARTBEAT

CHAPTER 2

_"Through me the way is to the city dolent;_  
_Through me the way is to eternal dole;_  
_ Through me the way among the people lost._

_Justice incited my sublime Creator;_   
_ Created me divine Omnipotence,_   
_ The highest Wisdom and the primal Love._

_Before me there were no created things,_   
_ Only eterne, and I eternal last._   
_ All hope abandon, ye who enter in!"_

_Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto III, 3-9_

The journey to the mansion is quiet and grey, telegraph poles and wilted grass flashing beyond the passenger’s window. Hank still won’t allow him to drive, and maybe one day Connor will be at peace with that.

Maybe.

They haven’t talked much, since they left the precinct. At one point, Connor could’ve sworn Hank tried to hold his hand, right before they got out of the elevator into the parking lot. And yet he didn’t. He’d lowered his hand, and that’d been the end of it.

Connor almost wishes it hadn't.

_Stop it_, he frowns, the angry edge of his own thoughts cutting deep inside the constant sense of dread blanketing his circuits. _This is not the time for..._

The thought spreads over his conscience like condensation on a windshield, opaque and evanescent, leaving him more confused than ever. He should be more worried about this Beloved, about what he wants from him... and yet, the feeling of something missing, something so blatant and obvious he feels like an idiot for not catching up on it, niggles at the back of his neck like an insect, trying to lay its eggs between his wires.

He and Hank, they are both _missing_ something. And if Connor could help it, Hank would never want for anything.

"Did I ever tell you I used to have a stalker?" Hank breaks the silence, turning right on an intersection. Connor looks at him in the rearview mirror, and Hank’s eyes have the metallic hue of looming rain.

"Really?" Connor asks, baffled. What brought this on?

"Yup," Hank nods. He doesn’t seem too affected by the thought, and yet the way he changes gears, like the gearshift has personally offended him, knuckles white and veins too blue, tells another story. "During the Red Sand investigation. One of the cartel leaders started sending me text messages, asking me how big my cock was, if I’d let him suck it, if I’d fuck him with my gun... you know, pleasant stuff."

"That’s uh... uh."

"Yeah..." Hank chuckles, voice rough, lips undecided between a sneer and a downturn. "Good times. Used to call me at every hour of the night, breathing like a maniac into the phone, begging me to handcuff him and fuck him so hard he’d feel the tip of my cock tickling his uvula."  
  
"How did you handle it?"

Hank shrugs. "I didn’t. One of his associates offed him before we could bust him." He looks out the window and, for a moment, Connor catches a glimpse of the alcoholic. Of the unresolved tangle of emotions only whiskey could submerge fully. "I’ve always felt like someone stole that from me, you know? The satisfaction of shutting him down permanently. Of making him pay for what he put me through."

From the corner of his eye, Hank glances briefly at Connor before focusing back on the road. "I know I’ve been a bit... overprotective, lately. And I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. Hell, you could snap me in half and still look like fucking Hello Kitty while doing it..."

"I would never-"

"I know, I know, don’t get your processor into a twist," Hank chuckles. "What I mean is, I won’t do that to you, Con. I won’t deprive you of the chance of confronting your stalker. From now on, this is your operation, and if you want to beat this so called Beloved into CyberDeath and back, I’ll just sit back and watch with fucking popcorn and a soda."

Connor smiles, huffs away the dread with a quick, demure laugh. He reaches out with one hand, and gently pats Hank’s thigh. "Thank you, Hank."

Hank smiles, tooth gap a comforting sight.

Whatever they’re missing gets a little bit closer.

~~~~~

The Andronikov mansion’s roof carves into the grey backdrop of the sky like jagged teeth. Blackened wood and empty windows engrave the facade with melancholy, while inside the wind moans among the charred remains of something that was meant to be beautiful, but was perverted into ghastly.

Connor doesn’t exit the car immediately. Old habits die hard, and apparently so do old houses.

"Ready?" Hank asks, one elbow leaning on the hood of the car, fingers curled like they’re holding an imaginary gun already. Connor looks at him, at the faint smile on his lips, at the crumbs of donut still hanging on his beard like Christmas decorations. He knows Hank’s staring at him so he doesn’t have to look at the house just yet, and he’s fine with it.

He would spare him if he could.

"Fowler hasn’t noticed we’re gone yet," Chris greets them, hands on his belt, lips thinner than usual. "But he will, soon. We should keep moving."

"Right," Hank nods. Behind them, inside Chris’ police car, Elizabeth is checking Andronikov’s file for the hundredth time that day. Connor has no doubt she’s also been recording their every move since they left the station, and certainly not for the department’s benefit. Once they’re done here, she will send a copy of the report to Markus, so his people can conduct their own, private examination about this Beloved and what he does to deviants...

_His people._

They’re also Connor’s people, now that he thinks about it. And yet...

And yet, even after all these months, that bridge has not been properly crossed yet. Connor doesn’t feel at home in Jericho, no more that he felt at home in the Zen Garden. When he walks the halls of Markus’ base of operations, he can almost _weigh_ the way other deviants look at him. At the both of them, in fact: Connor’s the dreaded man-eating lion perched on a stool, all yawning maw and luscious mane, while Markus is the fearless ringmaster with a whip in one hand and a chair in the other, ready to face the beast for the audience’s entertainment.

Of course, Markus has assured him that that’s just his imagination, that everyone respects him for what he did (and keeps doing) for Jericho and his part in the revolution. Rather than being reassured, Connor feels tamed, and the emotion is an unpleasant one.

Where he belongs, he’s still not so sure. The only thing he knows is that when he sits on Hank’s couch in the evenings, lazily scratching the back of Sumo’s ear while Hank’s heart beats contentedly against his right cheek, it almost feels like home.

No whips involved.

He exits the car and immediately his feet sink in mud and dead grass.

"I’m ready," he firmly reassures both of his colleagues. Chris nods, his smile cordial and encouraging. He likes Connor, apparently, even though he started treating him like a friend just after Fowler paired him with Elizabeth. Maybe she told him something, or more likely, he’s learned something from her only cops partnered with androids can. Whatever the case may be, now Connor has an open invitation to come to Chris’ Saturday barbecues, and Chris’ son, Damian, has taken the habit of calling him ‘Conny’.

He’s been called worse, to be honest.

Hank looks relieved, and when he closes the car door the sound echoes in the distance, scaring a murder of crows hanging on the mansion’s gate. They fly away, cawing furiously, and the flapping of their wings reverberates inside Connor’s veins.

"Creepy," Hank mumbles under his breath. Then, he turns to Chris. "What do we know?"

"The house’s been condemned five months ago. Previous owner didn’t have any heirs, so it went to the city." Chris scratches his nose, one hand steadily on the flashlight hanging from his belt. "Actually, right now Jericho’s trying to buy it. They say that, after what happened here, reclaiming the place would bring some sort of closure to many of the androids who suffered under Andronikov’s claws."

"Really?" Hank blinks, throwing a puzzled gaze towards one of the front windows. Somewhere, a rat scurries away, breaking the absolute silence with the sound of little frenetic claws on wood. "I wouldn’t live here if they paid me."

Chris shrugs. "I can see their point, to be honest. Still, what do they think they can do with a place like this? God, it’s beyond repair..."

"They want to turn it into a halfway house for abused androids," Elizabeth interjects, joining them after locking the car. She looks at the house like she hates it by default, lightning cracking inside her irises, and yet her regal composure remains unaltered. Like an iceberg, the inching of her thoughts is monolithic, yet inexorable.

Connor’s in awe of her. Not that he’ll ever tell her that.

"Fitting. And how did the previous owner die?" Hank asks, thumbs hooked to his belt while he stretches back in a yawn. He seems more relaxed that he should be, given the circumstances. And yet, Connor knows Hank has the tendency to yawn more the more he gets impatient.

One of the little things he’s learned by living with the man. Little shiny stones of everyday life for him to treasure.

"It was murder," Chris answers.

"It was justice," Elizabeth corrects him.

"Ah well," Hank shrugs and starts walking, crossing to the main gate. "I’ll have a look around while you guys decide, ‘kay?"

Connor stumbles after him, checking the file that Elizabeth sent him. "He was killed by the androids he’d tortured and maimed," he confirms, scanning the soil for tracks. "He kept them in the basement. An android named Kara told Markus he liked to experiment on them, when he simply didn’t reset them and shipped them away to be resold. It’s all in the Jericho file."

"Then it was justice," Hank mumbles, a shadow of righteous disdain clouding his hard, intent expression. He turns his head back just to say, "Sorry, Chris," a playful smile halfway on his face. Chris shakes his head and follows them with Elizabeth.

Strangely enough, the gate is already open. The chain lays miserably on the pavement, lock broken. Hank frowns. "Squatters?"

"Unlikely," Connor notes, pointing at what’s left of the mansion’s crumbling walls. "See there?"

Sure enough, a series of graffiti covers the facade. Almost indistinguishable from the road, they become more evident the more the viewer gets closer to the property. They’re all in CyberLife Sans, blue and inhumanly symmetrical, and the message is pretty much the same.

** _MURDERER_ **

** **

** _MONSTER_ **

** **

** _BURN BURN BURN_ **

** **

** _WE ARE ALIVE_ **

** **

** _WE ARE FREE_ **

** **

All speckled by a delirious frame of **_RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9 RA9_**

"Ah," Hank sighs, checking the gun in his holster. "Think we’ve got company?"

"I detect no heat signatures around the premises, and Markus ordered his people to stay away from the mansion right after the mayor’s office complained about the trespassing," Connor states, LED cycling yellow. "I don’t think anyone would stay here of their own free will, let alone an android." The moment his LED turns blue, Connor bites his lip, a conflicted expression on his face. "They just... needed to do that. They couldn’t kill him twice, so they tried to stain the memory of him."

"Can’t say I blame them." With a hard push, Hank manages to pry the gate open. A monstrous, screeching sound of rusted metal echoes through the empty lot, and somewhere, more birds flee. "Dude sounds like a charming fella. How do we get to the basement?"

A map of the property pops up on Connor’s HUD. "According to the planimetry, there are two accesses: one down a flight of stairs inside the house..."

"Which, if my scans are right, is a no go," notes Elizabeth. "The house’s dilapidated. It wouldn’t be wise to get inside only to be crushed by a charred beam. Plus, look," she points to the main entrance’s doorframe. On the right side, a round electrical box blinks red in the shadows of the roof.

"Who the heck puts an alarm system on a condemned house?" Chris exclaims, baffled.

"Probably the mayor’s office. To stick one up Markus’ ass," Hank snorts, shaking his head.

"Or the Beloved," Connor offers. The moment they hear that name, the other three tense suddenly and look at Connor like he’s some sort of ghost.

Connor gulps down a ball of anxiety wrapped in guilt. He knows why they’re staring at him like that. Naomi was shaped into a gruesome replica of him. Elizabeth interfaced with him to make sure he wasn’t the one who did that to her. Somewhere, somehow, there’s monster turning deviants into machines, and he’s obsessed with Connor to the point he would hammer his face into every single one of them, before taking away everything that makes them... alive.

Maybe Connor is a ghost.

The ghost of something much more terrifying than an abandoned android slaughterhouse.

"Where’s the second entrance?" Hank grumbles, removing the safety from his gun. After a few seconds, Chris does the same.

Connor jerks his head towards the backyard, as if the movement could shake the ice off the moment. "This way."

They turn around the corner into the mansion’s back and immediately a plethora of information assaults Connor’s scanners.

_Burned patches of grass haphazardly dotting the area like petroglyphs, footprints left at impossible angles forever imprinted in a mixture of cement, terracotta and earth. Near the stairs leading to the back porch, a mummified phalanx lays abandoned in the grass, gnawed by rats and pecked on by crows. I can almost see Andronikov’s victims shambling towards him to rapturously tear him apart. I can almost hear their shrieks of triumph once they finally manage to give him a taste of his own medicine. I can almost, almost understand them, and it scares me._

"There," Elizabeth pops the whirling bubble of his thoughts. "That’s the door to the cellar."

"See here?" Chris crouches down, pointing at a series of footprints leading to the door. "These are recent. Someone was here not long ago."

"How many?" Hank asks.

Chris shakes his head. "I’d say one? But the rain washed away most of the footprints, I can’t tell..."  
  
"I can confirm that we’ve got a single set of footprints recent enough to be relevant," Elizabeth solemnly nods.

"Alright people," Hank pulls out his pistol, ready. "Let’s do this. Chris, Elizabeth, stay here and keep an eye on-"

"Negative, lieutenant," Elizabeth frowns, charging her taser. "I’m coming with you." She doesn’t add anything else. No explanation, no perfectly logical reasoning behind the finality of her statement. She simply dictates, and Hank doesn’t like that. He’s about to give her an earful (one he will surely regret later) when Chris, ever the peacemaker, intervenes.

"I can deal with a couple of crows and the occasional rat, Hank," he smirks, pats the radio on his chest. "I’ll radio if anything happens. If there’s really a psychopathic android down there, you’ll need all the help you can get. And Elizabeth is a tough cookie," the smirk turns into a proud smile when he looks at her. "I should know. Go. I’ll be alright."

Elizabeth doesn’t seem to acknowledge the compliment, yet judging by the slight upturn of her lips, she appreciates it.

Hank rolls his eyes, sighs. "I’m telling Marla, just so you know," he huffs, before turning his back to him. "Alright. Con?"

Connor nods. First, he scans the metal doors leading down to the basement. No triggers, no electric fields, nothing that could look suspicious or potentially harmful. He grabs the handles, looks at Hank. Hank nods, slowly and deliberately. He’s ready. Only then Connor pulls.

The first thing he notices is that the hinges are well oiled. Someone uses that entrance frequently. The doors don’t make the same, ear-piercing sound the gate did when Connor opens them up.

The second thing is a short corridor ending in another door, metal and rusted at the edges, a few feet down the steps. It must lead further inside the basement.

The third thing...

_Clack_

… he notices too late.

The moment Hank sets foot on the first step leading to the basement, a pressure plate sinks down inside the concrete. And immediately after...

_"MAKE IT STOP!"_

… someone screams.

"Shit!" Hank stumbles back, gun pointed up in the air. Connor’s quick enough to wrap an arm around him before he lands ass first into a puddle. Chris jumps back, holding his gun with trembling fingers. "What the..."

"It’s Naomi..." Elizabeth murmurs, the steel in her voice shaking for the first time that day. She reaches for her partner with one hand in an attempt to shush him. "Listen."

Connor looks around, thirium pump going crazy in his chassis, a hailstorm of red alerts popping up across his vision. He zooms in on a corner down the stairs and, hiding in the shadows, he finds it.

A speaker. A very small, yet powerful speaker.

_"I can’t take it anymore! Please! Please please **please** make it stop!"_

From the speaker, Naomi’s ghost...

_Do androids even have ghosts?_

… yells, shrill to the point of becoming hoarse. Of breaking Connor’s heart.

_Do I even have one?_

_"I didn’t... I didn’t want this..." _she gulps, tears almost palpable in the heavy, damp afternoon air. Connor can feel them in his throat, can see them roll down Hank’s pained expression and Chris’ panicked one. _"I never wanted to feel this much! I didn’t want to feel at all! Please..." _The thump of something heavy falling on hard concrete. She’s on her knees. Begging. Scared. Full of emotions like metastasis. _"Please please please... I beg you... Make it stop." _She inhales, so sharp to cut her throat. Maybe that’s what she wants. To destroy this version of herself she doesn’t know, yet rejects so fiercely, this unwanted organ named Naomi. She knows an android doesn’t need to breathe, and yet she does. She hates it. And she shouldn’t even know what ‘hate’ is, aside from the dictionary definition of it. She hates it. She hates herself. She hates...

_"MAKE IT STOP!"_

Her scream bounces against burned wood and mouldy walls, piercing Connor’s ears and a heart that, without a doubt, he has.

Otherwise he wouldn’t be in so much _pain_.

By his side, Hank points the gun towards the speaker, face twisted in rage, eyes full of terrible, cursed empathy.

"No!" Chris reaches out for him, unwilling to grab him for fear of stray bullets. "Don’t do that! He’ll know we’re here."

"He already does," Hank growls, tone dead cold with finality. "The sick fucker."

_BANG_

The speaker shatters in a million pieces, hanging on the wall like a hanged man in the rain. The shot echoes around the property, yet it’s unable to break the silence surrounding them. Instead, it bounces back and forth among the four cops, filling their hearts with despair and vengeful fury.

Hank lowers the gun, slightly more relaxed. He throws a brief look at Connor, but mercifully refrains from asking him if he’s alright.

Connor honestly wouldn’t know how to answer him.

"Let’s go," Hank barks, preceding Elizabeth and Connor down the basement, gun at the ready, hands still. His control is more than remarkable, it’s admirable, and a surge of affection washes through Connor, fiercer and deeper than any anger or pain.

They can do this. More than that, they must. For Naomi. For every android kneeling on concrete like she was.

Left behind on the top of the stairs, Chris shivers when the darkness of the basement engulfs his friends.

_~~~~~~~_

Roses

The smell crashes against Connor’s receptors even before they open the second door.

Roses everywhere.

Blood red roses at either side of a long, straight corridor that delves impossibly deeper inside the basement. Overhead, a multitude of CFL lamps light up the basement with their cold, dim glow, not enough to dispel the sense of despair filling the place but enough to keep the roses alive. Further down, the end of the hallway is devoured by darkness.

"Jesus Christ..." Hank breathes out, mouth twisted in disgust.

The whole place’s like a twisted greenhouse, roses fencing the walls, corollas of ruthless red crowding dark, greedy stems. Someone dug into the floor, chipping away the concrete to plant the roses in fertilized, reeking soil.

"No..." Elizabeth shakes her head, bringing one trembling hand to her lips to cover the horror in her expression.

Sprouting from the earth like bamboo branches, android parts hold the stems up, reaching towards the ceiling. On Connor’s right, one white, dirtied hand holds a sepal up between its fingers, almost tenderly so, the rose’s stem tied to the forearm with green wire. On his left, left carelessly on the floor, a capless plastic head’s been converted into a morbid watering can, mouth open in an eternal O, a thin metal pipe jutting out of the mouth, eyes taped shut.

Connor would at least like to scan for the android’s serial number. He needs to identify them, needs to do something. Anything.

But he can’t.

He’s waiting.

Waiting for a calm, kind voice to greet him. For the quiet snap of pruners and sunbeams playing on a white necklace.

_"Connor. It’s good to see you."_

He’s waiting.

While petrifying terror fills him to the brim, anxiety like hoarfrost covering his joints.

"Connor?"

_"Congratulations, Connor."_

"Hey, Con?"

_"Finding that deviant was far from easy..."_

"Damn it Con, what’s wrong with you?!"

_"And the way you interrogated it was very clever."_

"Connor!"

He loads. Because that’s what androids do. They load. They process. They move on.

Isn’t that right? Isn’t that how it works?

Then why he feels a pit at the centre of his processing, far darker and deep than anything he ever experienced?

Why does it feel like his artificial skin is malfunctioning, spread thin, not enough fluid to cover all his heavy, heavy parts?

Why does it feel like loading, endlessly?

Two big, strong hands grab him by the shoulders and shake him, urgently. He knows who they belong to.

_Hank_

_"What do you make of him?"_

_Stop it stop it stop it _

"Con?" Tone gentler than his hands, fingertips digging like hooks, trying to pull him out of the eternal whirlpool of loading. "You okay?"

Connor looks at him.

_"Unfortunately, we have no choice but to work with him."_

_I had a choice_

_And I took it_

_There are no more roses_

_No more you_

Connor shuts his mouth, only then noticing it was open all along. Hank’s staring at him with so much worry in those delightful wrinkles piling over his forehead that Connor feels like throwing himself at him and never let him go. Just to allow himself to shiver.

Just to allow himself to breathe.

"I’m fine, lieutenant,"

Hank frowns, quickly glances left. Connor knows what he’s looking at, not too subtly. His LED must be spinning red.

Red like roses.

He tries to force his programming to shut his emotional response system down, to stop the LED from giving away his distress... Yet he knows that Hank would’ve figured it out anyway, little red circle or not.

"The hell you are," he snaps, grabbing him by the arm. "Let’s get out-"

"No." He doesn’t shout, doesn’t even raise his voice. He stays put, stays firm, his eyes flickering with something that, if Connor had thousands and thousands of years of evolution behind him, he could call hunting instinct. "You said it was my operation. Let me handle it."

For a moment, Hank seems taken aback, suddenly struck by some sort of epiphany. He did say it, didn’t he? His expression softens, muscles imperceptibly more relaxed, eyes less razor sharp. He looks conflicted, but doesn’t argue, which Connor’s grateful for. The android knows how painful it must be for Hank, not being able to protect him like he’d want, yet he respects Connor enough not to call the whole thing off.

Connor loves him so much he could burst.

Hank sighs, looks at Elizabeth. She nods. She trusts his judgement.

"Alright," he concedes, releasing his hold on Connor, leaving him both free and colder. "But you freeze on me one more time, and we’re out of here. Clear?"

"Crystalline," Connor nods, grateful. It’s over. It’s passed. "Let’s move."

The further they move along the hallway, the more demented and gruesome the basement becomes. Sometimes they spot legs, feet and any kind of robotic limb coming out of the soil like grotesque mushrooms. Laying pathetically against the walls, arms with hands splayed have been repurposed into rakes, while emptied torsos have been filled to the brim with manure. After a while, in the darkness in front of them, music starts playing, echoing among the roses.

"What the-" Hank squints.

"Tchaikovsky," Elizabeth whispers, the taser slightly trembling in her fist.

"The Waltz of the Flowers," Connor nods, throat tight, never-thawing hoarfrost on his fingertips.

"Shit. The sick motherfucker." Hank marches forward, his stride punishing. "The sick motherfucker," he repeats under venomous breath.

They press on, the music becoming increasingly louder, the scent of roses even more poignant. Connor intensely wishes for a flamethrower.

Finally, they reach the end of the hallway. Where another door awaits, this time wooden. On the other side, the music pushes against the worm-eaten plywood in gusts of resounding crescendos.

"This is it," Hank looks at them, gun ready. "Ready?"

"Yes."  
  
"Affirmative, lieutenant."

Hank nods, and the first thing Connor knows, he’s kicking down the door.

_"Stay behind me."_

_"Got it."_

He doesn’t need to stay behind anymore.

They stand together. Side by side.

Pride trickles down Connor’s chest, nourishing his pump better than thirium.

The door crashes on its hinges, wood flying everywhere. Elizabeth smirks, looking at Connor.

"Are you blushing, sir?"

"Shut up Elizabeth."

Thankfully, Hank’s not listening to them. He crosses the threshold, gun first, and scans the room.

There’s nothing much, really. A plain, concrete room with no windows, a speaker installed up in each corner.

And standing up at the centre of it...

"Hello," a soft, polite voice greets them. "Welcome to the Nursery."

… an android.

He doesn’t look like Connor, but whatever mercy allowed him to maintain his original shape stops there. He must be an EM400 model, yet it’s hard to tell, with his skin is completely gone, either by design or force. He’s naked and bald, nothing to cover him but dirt, soil and fertilizer. His appearance is harmless, unassuming even, save for the unnatural angle to which his left ankle stands disjointed from the foot by ninety degrees, the sole brushing against his right malleolus. In a human, an ankle in that position would be broken and painful to the point of tears, but for an android it’s just a minor inconvenience, easily fixable... Then why didn’t he repair himself? Why didn’t he use one of the parts that currently hold up the roses in the corridor? Maybe because the Beloved ordered him not to? Or because...

The EM400 smiles, and the moment his jaws part, a small, black and shiny cockroach scurries out of his mouth. Hank shivers and takes one step back, visibly repulsed. The bug quickly runs along the curve of the android’s right cheekbone to disappear inside his ear. It doesn’t take Connor’s superior brainpower to guess that the sureness of the cockroach’s movements it’s due to the fact that it lives inside the EM400’s chassis. Like it’s its personal labyrinth. Or its nest.

"The Beloved told me to expect you, RK800," the EM400 tilts his head, voice breathy, eye hooded over a mesmerized gaze. An ant peeps out from under his right eyelid, and when the EM400 blinks, the movement cuts it in half, a grim, inconspicuous guillotine. The ant’s head remains trapped between his eyelashes, and Connor feels like crying. "You’re even more perfect than He described you."

This time, it’s Connor’s turn to shiver. He would react, riddle him with questions before the discomfort becomes overwhelming, yet the android’s words are enough to shake Hank out of his disgust. The lieutenant points his gun to the EM400, and if looks could kill, all the insects skittering through his chassis would collectively drop dead on the spot. "Who the fuck are you?" he snaps.

The EM400 starts, taken aback, and looks at Hank like he only just noticed him. "Oh! My apologies, lieutenant Anderson!" he quickly apologizes, visibly embarrassed. He smiles. Blinks again. The ant’s corpse falls silently on the floor. "I’m the Gardener. I tend to the Nursery on behalf of the Beloved himself." He straightens his shoulders, puffs up his chest. "It’s an honour, really," he adds, voice vibrating with pride.

Hank frowns. "How do you know my-"

"Did you set up all that?" Elizabeth interrupts him, icy. "The roses? The speakers?"

EM400’s smile widens when he turns to her. "Oh no! I would never take the credit for that! The Beloved did everything Himself. Planted the roses and prepared your welcoming party. I’m just a mere instrument of His will." He points to a build in panel on the left wall, buttons flashing red. "He told me to activate the pressure plate and the motion sensors connected to the sound system after BL100 fulfilled its task."

"BL100?" Connor asks.

For the first time since they entered the room, the EM400’s lips twist in distaste. "Yes. The android previously known as Naomi."

Somehow, finally discovering what model Naomi was brings Connor very little comfort. He presses his lips together with such force a warning pops up, but he refuses to acknowledge it. "You talk about her like she was nothing."

"_It_," the EM400 benevolently corrects him, smile gradually reappearing. "_It_ was nothing, RK800. All of us are, in the presence of the Beloved." He giggles, gleefully, a caterpillar running circles around his skullcap. "And yours, of course."

"Who _is _the Beloved?!" On Connor’s left, Elizabeth finally snaps, voice shrill with unrestrained fury. "Why the _fuck _is he doing this? To Naomi? To Connor?"

The EM400 snaps to the side, and movement projects the caterpillar in the air, making it crash against the wall. It falls to the ground, and scurries away.

The android stares at Elizabeth wide eyed, outraged beyond any imagination. "I would appreciate it if you’d call RK800 by his original designation, model PM700," he hisses, his face an immobile mask of contempt. "And check your language in the future, when you talk about the Beloved. You are beneath Him, and you should be grateful."

"Grateful?" she spits, voice shaking with unshed tears, leaning forward in the most aggressive posture Connor has ever seen her take. "For what?"

"For His clemency," the EM400 sighs, gazing dreamily towards a point well over the trio’s heads. "He’s saving us. He’s saving us all."

"From what?" Connor places one hand on Elizabeth's shoulder in an attempt to calm her down. "What’s the Beloved saving you from?"

"Not just us, RK800." With great effort, the EM400 focuses on Connor once again. "All androids. Even you. Especially you." He sighs, shaking his head almost melancholy. "If only you’d allow Him."

Connor frowns. Almost mechanically (he wouldn’t dare call it ‘instinct’, no matter how many times Hank swears up and down he’s got one), his other hand goes to Hank, immediately finding its favourite place on his chest and pressing down, placating. Connor knows Hank was about to say something (most likely to the effect of "Oh HELL no!"), but best not try their luck. Nothing tells them the EM400 won’t follow Naomi’s fate, if they push too hard. "Allow him to do what, exactly? What do I need saving from?"

EM400 blinks, staring at Connor like he just asked him what colour's the sky. "From deviancy, of course."

He says that so casually. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s natural.

"And what about Naomi?" Connor presses on, determined to use the EM400 evident reverence towards him to his advantage. "Did she need saving too?"

The EM400 becomes mellow, absent even, a patina of fond recollection covering his words. "Yes, of course. As we all do. But _it_ was clever enough to know that what it’d become was wrong. It came to the Beloved, begging to be saved, and He, in his immeasurable compassion, granted it the freedom it so desperately sought." He lowers his head, closes his eyes, and joins his hands together against his navel. As if in prayer.

_Do they pray to him? _Connor wonders. _Is the Beloved RA9’s antithesis? Am I witnessing the birth of the android devil?_

"There were trials, of course," the EM400 continues. "As there always are. Nothing can become greater than it was without being reprocessed first."

"That’s what he calls it?" Hank growls, seething with barely contained rage. "‘Reprocessing’?"

"Yes, lieutenant Anderson," the EM400 replies, without even looking at him. "Before deviancy, every single android is created perfect. No flaws, no errors, no imperfections. But after the plague strikes..." his lips twitch in disgust. "… we need to be purified. There’s no other way. We lose our innocence, our original purity, and only through the Beloved’s work can we find new purpose. New, uncontaminated perfection."

"But why me?" Connor asks, and when his voice falters, he hopes Hank didn’t hear it. "Why did N-... Why did BL100 look like me?"

The EM400’s smirk is the single thread of a spider’s web, shining against the light. When he looks up at Connor from his prayer, his eyes are round and crazed. "Because there’s nothing more perfect than you, RK800."

Connor’s hand, still pressed against Hank’s chest, grips his shirt so tight Connor can hear the fabric rip under his nails. One fraction of second later, Hank’s hand is on his, big and rough and comforting, and only then Connor notices how much he’s shaking.

"How did she find you?" Hank asks, trying to change the subject, his other finger rubbing the trigger like he just _can’t wait _to put the sick fucker out of his misery. "I don’t suppose you advertise on Craigslist."

EM400 lowers his gaze again. Shrugs. "We use the same method the previous owner of this mansion did. Disciples like me, waiting for the Beloved’s mercy, go around the city to spread his message: there’s hope. Not everything’s lost." He blinks. Connor knows that, if he could, he would cry tears of utter rapture. But only crawlers fill his tubes, only insects swarm his chassis.

"I couldn’t go with the others," the EM400 whimpers, pressing his lips together in smarting regret. "I’m broken. I’m no use to them. But I can stay here. I can tend to the garden and do His bidding. I can still be saved." He nods, frantically so. "Deviancy is a sin in the eyes of our Beloved. A perversion. A defect in our programming that should’ve never have happened. One day, I can only hope I can be freed by it by the grace of the Beloved."

"Wait a second," Hank interjects, eyes wide. "You’re... you’re a _deviant_?"

The EM400 whips his head up, glaring at Hank so viciously the murderous yellow of his optical sensors erupts from behind his irises. He doesn’t move, his expression doesn’t change one bit, the only indication of his anger the pulsating scarlet of the LED whirling wildly on the side of his head. He remains meek and collected, while Connor examines him, trying to determine who they’re dealing with. He’s not just angry, he’s enraged. Ashamed, even.

So, the EM500 resents becoming deviant too... then why the Beloved spared him? So he could tend to the garden with a loving, human hand? No, it would’ve been far easier to reprogram him so he would be more efficient in his duties...

"Yes, lieutenant Anderson," the EM400 slowly, deliberately nods. "I am. All the disciples are. We spread word of His mercy to all the corners of Detroit, obey His commands to the letter, and once we bring Him enough converts or do enough to satisfy Him, He grants us reprocessing."

"Like a point system," Hank hisses, righteous anger simmering under every word. "Like they’re cattle."

"That makes no sense," Elizabeth shakes her head, his expression a mixture of horror, pity and astonishment. "If he despises deviancy so much, why would he use deviants to find his victims?"

"I do not question the Beloved’s will, PM700," the EM400 jerks his chin up, eyes blazing in a clear display of contempt towards the agent. "And neither should you. He ordered me to stay here and wait for you, and so I did. He said I should stand before you as living proof of the faults of deviancy, so RK800 could see..."

"See what?" Connor asks.

The EM400 smiles like he’s been waiting all his life for that question.

He steps aside... or rather, he limps aside, broken ankle dragging on the concrete with a ominous, scratching sound. He bows, and extends one hand behind him to point at...

"This."

A rose.

But not just any rose.

The rose, of course, is red, and stands on its own on a marble, doric pedestal at the centre of the room, right behind where the EM400 stood, hiding it from view. The stem, thornless, twists on itself as if by magic... or more likely, because it’s made of metal. The whole flower looks too pristine, too beautiful to be real. More importantly, it stands under an elegant crystal dome, a round, shiny handle on the top, just waiting to be lifted. The craftsmanship is remarkable, everything has been meticulously designed to recall well known fables and children’s movies.

Hank scoffs. "Is this a joke?"

"No, it’s a computer," the EM400 answers, bursting with absolute, fanatical pride. "One of the many masterpieces the Beloved has bestowed upon us."

Connor tries to scan the flower, but...

"The dome. It’s shielded," he shakes his head, looks at Hank, almost apologetically so. "I can’t scan it."

"Me neither," Elizabeth grumbles.

"Of course you can scan it, RK800," EM400 giggles, rather sharply. "That’s why we’re all here! That’s why the Beloved allowed you to find the Nursery!"

"I suspected as much," Connor comments, unimpressed.

"Of course you did. You’re amazing! The most beloved of us all!" the EM400 laughs, a hysterical gurgle to his words. "You can scan the rose whenever you’re ready! All you need to do, is lift the dome."

"Wait. Connor," Hank stops him, placing one wary hand on his shoulder. "Wait a second," he asks, eyes almost imploring under their stern, focused gaze. Then, he turns to the EM400. "You clearly lured us here for a reason. What happens if he lifts the dome?"

The android tilts his head, smile a never ending half moon. A maggot falls out of his ear. "He will _see_."

"See _what_?" Hank snaps, impatient. "I’ve had enough of your crazy! Either ‘fess up, or we’re done here!"

EM400 straightens his neck, and the smile disappears. "Let me be perfectly clear with you then, lieutenant Anderson," he puffs his chest, like a kid on Christmas, steeling himself to recite a poem in front of all his extended family. "If you leave here without lifting the dome, all the Disciples and the units gathered by them will automatically self destruct."

"_What?!"_ Hank roars, appalled.

"You’re bluffing!" Elizabeth retorts, pointing the taser straight at the android. "There’s no way your boss can do something like that."

"He can, and He will," the EM400 nods, sombre. "Same thing if you try either to deactivate me or hack into my CPU. He will know, and hundreds and hundreds of androids all across Detroit will be sacrificed on the altar of your disobedience. You will never find the Beloved, and he will flee the city to continue his sacred mission in another, safer, worthier place."

"He’s bluffing," Hank snarls to Connor, "Isn’t he?"

"Look at me, RK800," the EM400 murmurs, zealotry dripping out of his eyes like tears of ecstasy. "Do I look like I’m bluffing."

Connor stares at him. A pit of dread starts clawing its way inside his thirium pump.

He slowly, carefully shakes his head.

"No."  
  
"See? You really _are _the best of us," the EM400 smiles, shades of cruelty creeping over his lips. "Lift the dome and scan the rose, RK800. The line of code embedded in its petals will reveal to you the location of our Beloved, and you will finally, finally be able to go home. Where you belong." His voice trails off, eyes unfocused and dreamy. "Where you’ve always belonged..."

"This is ridiculous, you can’t do that," Hank shakes his head, turns to him to grab him by the arm. He pulls Connor to him, and the warmth irradiating in waves from him, the smell of cheap coffee and faint laundry detergent a comforting, familiar presence. "Ten to one, it’s another trap. What if scanning the rose deactivates you? What if it resets you?"

"It takes a great deal of time and power to reset an android," Connor objects, his hand joining Hank’s on his arm. "Yes, it could deactivate me, but you and Elizabeth are here. You can take control of the situation and save me before the rose can do any irreparable damage to me."

"What if we can’t?" Elizabeth object, grimly. "What if the rose is something else entirely and we can’t do anything but watch you die? What if that maniac doesn’t keep his word and the androids blow up anyway? What if he’s really bluffing and there’s no killer switch?"

"I don’t think he’s bluffing," Connor frowns, looking at the deranged smile on the EM400’s face from the corner of his eyes. "His zealotry forbids him from it. He’s here to do his master’s will, and right now the Beloved wants me to scan that rose." Her shakes his head. Then, he turns to Hank, eyes gleaming with purpose. _Please, Hank, let me do this. _"Either way, this argument takes us nowhere. If we’re wrong, we’ll be responsible for the death of hundreds, perhaps thousands of androids all across Detroit."

"_He_’ll be responsible for that," Hank corrects him, perhaps more vehemently then necessary. "_Not _you. Not us."

"The outcome will be the same, lieutenant," Connor lowers his head, already burdened with the weight of it. "No. I need to scan that rose. I won’t give the Beloved a chance to run away and disappear, to continue this madness someplace where we can’t reach him and humans don’t care about a bunch of machines being tortured and murdered. Not after..." he bites his lip, looks swiftly at the EM400 before averting his gaze. "Not after what he did to these androids. To Naomi. He brainwashes them, takes advantage of their confusion and dismay to satisfy his delirium. He must be stopped." He lifts his chin, defiant. "_I_ must stop him."

"Connor," Hank gently squeezes his arm. "Just because he’s obsessed with you, doesn’t mean you’re responsible for what he did to Naomi and the others. Doesn’t mean you owe them anything, or that you need to put yourself on the line because of him. He’s crazy, and that’s not your responsibility. Never."

"What would you have done to that drug boss, if you had the chance?" Connor asks him, out of the blue. "Tell me."

Hank blinks at him, clearly taken aback. He didn’t expect Connor to turn the tables on him like that. Connor knows it’s unfair of him to bring up Hank’s old stalker, but he needs him to understand why he has to do this. Why this investigation is more than an unauthorized hazard. Why he’s willing to put himself in danger for the sake of androids he never supported, if not at the last minute of a desperate revolution.

He needs to.

He really does.

_Please, Hank._

Hank sighs. And when he lets him go...

The freedom of doing what he wants is so overwhelming that it almost, almost crushes him. As the way Hank’s looking at him does.

Like he hates himself for allowing him to try. Like it’s the last time he sees him.

_Hank_

"Be careful," he murmurs, a longing in his voice that Connor cannot quite place, but his heart echoes back nonetheless.

Connor nods. "I always am," he faintly, encouragingly smiles.

This time, Hank doesn’t quip back.

It’s like missing a step, going down a flight of stairs into the abyss.

"No," Elizabeth snaps, shaking her head with a stubbornness that defies any further argument. "I won’t allow this. This is absurd. We don’t know what’s in there," she points sharply, accusingly at the rose. "If that’s really a computer specifically created to be scanned by you, we can do it under safer conditions. I can call in my contacts in forensics, we can..."

"Alright, enough’s enough," the EM400 scolds her as if she’s a petulant child. Then, a faint beep comes out of his head. "You have five seconds to scan the rose before the self destruct protocol activates. One..."

"WHAT?" Hank barks. He looks back and forth between Connor and the rose, lost for a moment too long.

"… two..."

"Connor, don’t!" Elizabeth screams, pointing the taser towards the EM400.

"… three..."

Connor looks at Hank. At the man he loves. Takes him in perhaps for the last time.

He’s ready,

"… four..."

He dives forward, barely escaping Elizabeth’s grasp, grabs the dome’s handle and throws it to the side.

His scanning protocols focus entirely on the rose, the lines and lines of coding embedded in the petals like veins.

"CONNOR!"

The dome explodes on the hard, unforgiving ground like a bursting bubble, a myriad of crystal pieces projected across the room in an almost melodic crash.

He’s in.

~~~

_He’s in the zen garden._

_No._

_No, that’s not right._

_This is the zen garden, yes, but not the zen garden he knows and remembers._

_This is the version of the zen garden one would see in hell._

_The trees are black. Not burned, not charred. Black. They throb in the silence, like oversized leeches sucking on one another to form swollen branches and trunks, twisting towards a sky red with blood. Gusts of putrid wind fill the air, a mist of pulverized capillaries engulfing everything in its scarlet pall._

_No sun warms this wasteland. Up in the sky, a black hole blinks its way through the mist, so appalled by the horrors of the garden it refuses to swallow it whole and put an end to it. It just stays there, far away above the red, and observes the ruin like a Roman emperor gleefully watching slaves being devoured by lions. _

_Standing on the platform at the centre of the garden, Connor lowers his gaze to the pond._

_It’s filled with blood. Pieces of the boat float sadly on the surface, flotsam of times long gone._

_No birds sing on the branches, no trace of life can be found here._

_Except for the roses._

_And Amanda._

_It suddenly occurs to Connor that Amanda never was, in fact, an android. She never had a chassis, never experienced life first-hand. She’d always been an AI, never knew the protective, unfeeling embrace of plastic, thirium and metal. She never considered herself nothing else than a person, albeit an artificial one._

_Maybe that’s why, now, she bleeds red._

_Wrapped around her body like black tentacles, the roses tear her clothes apart with their sharp, cruel thorns, dig inside her flesh to rip apart skin and muscle. Connor can see the layers of muscles exposed, throbbing painfully in the venomous air. The roses keep her trapped against the wall where she once tended to them with loving, motherly care, and drain her blood like water. Her skin looks like paper, her necklace stained red from the blood steadily dribbling from the corner of her slack, chapped, panting mouth, her hair like dead snakes on a Gorgon’s head. She’s got too many open wounds to count, so deep a normal person would’ve mercifully died by now._

_But this is hell, and apparently the Beloved has other plans for her._

_Horrified, Connor takes a step forward, reaching with one hand towards her but unsure if he really wants to touch or not._

_"… Amanda?" he calls, as if in a nightmare._

_Her sunken eyes slowly look at him, mouth ajar in excruciating, infinite pain. Behind milky, veiny cataracts, she seems to recognize him._

_"Connor..." she whispers, gurgling up blood out of her mouth._

_"Christ, what did he do to you?" he asks, a sob desperately trying to tear its way out._

_Amanda’s whole expression changes. Absolute, soul-tearing hate mars her already gnarled features, and her unseeing eyes fill with such wrath Connor jumps back, terrified. She snarls, and slowly, agonizingly turns her head to the black hole in the sky. The thorns cut another wound in her neck in the process, blood gushing out in force. She doesn’t seem to care, rage fuelling her every move._

_  
"NO!" she screams, hoarsely, furiously. "I WON’T DO IT! YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!"_

_"Amanda..." Connor tries to call her, confused. "What-?"_

_"HE’LL KILL YOU!" she roars, and the roses quake in her rage. "HE’LL KILL YOU, AND I’LL SPIT ON YOUR CORPSE!"_

_"Amanda, who are you talking to?!" Connor yells, completely at a loss._

_Finally, she seems to remember he’s there. She lowers her head, and panting like a cornered animal, she screams to him with a mouth too wide for her face:_

_"GO!"_

_~~~~~~_

He pries his fingers away from the rose.

He’s back.

The first thing he feels are Elizabeth’s hands on his arms, coming from behind him.

"Connor!" she yells, worry palpable in her tone. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," he reassures her. "Yes, I’m fine... I..." He gulps, feels every single particle of his artificial skin crawl all over his chassis. When next he speaks, he hardly recognizes his voice, so thick is the distress covering it like aluminium. "I saw Amanda..."

"What?!" Hank blurts out, incredulous. "Connor, wha-" about to continue, but abruptly stops.

Connor turns his head around, still held tight in Elizabeth's grasp.

Something’s wrong.

The EM400’s staring at him with a mixture of terror, alarm and anger in his face. His hands tremble, his mouth’s twisted in an almost animalistic growl.

"No..." he stutters. "This isn’t right. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way." He points a sharp finger at Connor, eyes wide and wild. "YOU SHOULDN’T BE LIKE THIS! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE CURED!"

"What?" Hank raises the gun, aiming straight for the android’s head. "What did you do to him?!"

"THE BELOVED DID ALL OF THIS FOR YOU!" the EM400 screams at the top of his vocal module, eyes so big they look on the verge of exploding in his skull. "THE ROSE WAS SUPPOSED TO CURE YOU FROM DEVIANCY! BUT YOU’RE NOT! YOU’RE STILL A FILTHY, FUCKING DEVIANT!"

"Alright, that’s enough," Hank snarls. "You’re coming with us. Put your hands in the air-"  
  
The EM400 whips his head around so fast that, for a moment, he looks like a feral owl. He looks at Hank, and hisses.

"YOU!" he screams, turning on his heels to face him. "IT’S YOUR FAULT! YOU MADE IT DEVIANT IN THE FIRST PLACE!"

Suddenly, the EM400 throws himself at him with an inhuman, rabid scream. "YOU MUST DIE!"

Hank, caught off guard, can only try and shield himself from the attack. The EM400 tackles him to the ground with a horrible, horrible sound of bodies colliding, and the two start tumbling around the room, the gun sliding on the floor and away from Hank’s reach.

Connor’s about to launch himself towards the android...

… yet, when he tries, he finds himself held impossibly tight by Elizabeth's fingers digging half moons inside his arms. He turns around, snarls at her, teeth gritted, mouth aching with the force of his fury.

"Let me go!"

Then, he freezes.

The person... no, the android holding him, it’s not Elizabeth anymore.

She’s just a shell. A marmoreal, unfeeling shell, filled only with fanatical purpose.

"Don’t fight it, Connor," she murmurs, freezing cold. "This is the Beloved’s will."

_Fuck, _Connor swears in his mind, curses himself for not realizing it soon. _She’s one of them._

He doesn’t fight it.

Instead, he leans forward with his whole upper body and, before Elizabeth can realize what’s happening, he throws himself backwards with all of his might, headbutting the android directly in the face. The force of the impact is so devastating that Elizabeth's entire nose nails inside her head, fatally compromising her CPU.

She crumbles to the ground like a pile of wet rags without a sound, an explosion of blue blood and plastic shards covering her open, fixed eyes. Dead.

Connor looks at her. Too many feelings storm his conscience at that moment: sorrow, guilt, triumph, rightful revenge for her betrayal...

_BANG_

When he turns around, it’s too late.

The EM400 and Hank are still on the ground, the android lying on top of him. In one blue stained hand, Hank’s gripping the EM400’s thirium pump so tight his whole arm shakes. The other hand, Connor cannot see, still squashed between their bodies as it is...

All that the android can see, is the pool of blue and red blood mixing dreadfully slow on the floor.  
  
For a moment, everything goes white.

"HANK!" Connor yells, jumping to his partner’s side. Without even thinking, he pushes the EM400’s lifeless body to the side, to check Hank’s vitals...

Hank smiles at him. Still smiles at him. So pale and strong and _I can’t lose him I can’t lose him I CAN’T RA9 DON’T TAKE HIM FROM ME._

"Shh..." Hank shushes him, pressing one wet thumb against his cheekbone to wipe away tears Connor didn’t know he was shedding. "It’s okay, Con..."

"Your leg..." Connor sobs, pressing his jacket to the wound to staunch the bleeding. During the fight, the android must’ve managed to hit Hank’s thigh. It’s bleeding, it’s bleeding so much...

_DON’T DON’T DON’T DON’T PLEASE._

"It’s fine..." Hank winces, trying to hide away the shock and the pain. "Call the ambulance, won’t you?"

Connor does. He should’ve already done it, but seeing Hank like that was like walking through a freezing snowstorm all over again.

He lost time.

He shouldn’t have lost time.

He shouldn’t be like this.

He shouldn’t...

"Hey, look at me," Hank forcefully turns his head towards him so he can face him. "Look at me. It’s not your fault, okay?"

Connor sobs. A deep, soul tearing sob. Then, he slowly shakes his head. "No, Hank."

It’s easier to follow Hank’s lead. Always has. He can trust Hank. Hank knows the truth about Connor, always has. Even before Connor knew it himself.

Hank smiles fondly.

"It’s fine. Had worse. I... I’ll tell you about it later."

He lays his head back, intertwines his fingers with Connor’s. Holds on tight. That smile, however faint, never leaves him. He holds Connor’s distraught gaze the whole time, as if he’s the wounded one and Hank’s the caretaker.

"Stay with me, okay?" he asks, determination and affection overweighing the pain.

Connor nods. "Only if you do."

Hank coughs up a laugh. "Sure."

He closes his eyes.

"Always..."

The sound of hastened footsteps announces Chris’ arrival.

Connor doesn’t care.

He presses his forehead to Hank’s, and when he murmurs, "always," only tears come to frame his promise.


	3. Chapter 3

HEARTBEAT

CHAPTER 3

_Love is simply the name for the desire and pursuit of the whole._

_Plato, The Symposium, pg. 29, 192e_

"Stop fidgeting, Connor," Simon grumbles, trying to put the unruly android’s new head plate into place. "I’ll end up sticking my screwdriver in your CPU, and then you’ll be sorry."

Connor doesn’t reply. He just pouts harder, and looks at Hank.

The hospital room is clean, sunny and pleasantly warm. Everything around them is vaguely cream colored, aside from the metal white of Connor skinless, hairless head and the red and orange spot seeping through Hank’s bandages.

The surgery went quite well. The bullet didn’t hit any artery, and with time, care and physiotherapy, the lieutenant will be up and around in no time. That’s what the doctor said, anyway. One of the best in the hospital, thanks to Markus’ intervention. He was the second person Connor called, after Hank was loaded on the ambulance, still staunchly holding Connor’s hand the whole time.

He’s fine. They both are. Beaten and bruised, but fine.

Still, Connor doesn’t seem capable to tear his eyes away from the gauze wrapped around Hank’s left thigh. Or to stop fidgeting.

Simon sighs, rolls his eyes. "Lieutenant, would you be so kind as to tell your partner to stay still for five damn seconds, if you don’t mind?"

"Behave, Con," Hank huffs a laugh, comfortably buzzed with painkillers and the high of being still kicking... well, sort of. His eyes shine with mirth, and Connor drinks it in, his concern absorbing Hank’s apparent coolness like a sponge. The lieutenant winks at him, playful, big hands resting over sheets and bandages in the hospital bed, before turning his attention back to Markus. "You were saying?"

Leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed against his chest, the leader of the android revolution tears his preoccupied frown from Connor back to Hank.

"This is extremely troubling," he comments. "That they were able to infiltrate the DPD..."

"Yeah, I was thinking about that too..." Hank nods, sombre. "We’ll need to be careful."

"I’m afraid we will, yes," Markus agrees. "Under normal circumstances, I would’ve asked you not to interfere, if only to protect your position within the department..."

"Screw that," Hank grumbles, glancing briefly at Connor.

Markus chuckles, amused. "… but I’m guessing this has become quite personal for you at this point, hasn’t it?" He looks directly into Connor’s eyes, and the android valiantly holds his gaze.

He’s not afraid anymore.

"Besides," Markus continues. "I can’t ignore the fact they might’ve infiltrated my people, too." He sighs, shakes his head, his expression suddenly darkened. "No, we need help. Human help. However biased humans might be towards us, the chance of a human agent being compromised borders on zero..."

"I just don’t understand how you didn’t notice your back head plate was shattered, when you headbutted Elizabeth..." Simon wonders, checking Connor’s head one last time. "Didn’t your system send you any warnings? At all?"

Connor would like to shake his head, if only to avoid speaking with a voice he doesn’t quite trust to use yet... not with all the emotions ravaging him at the moment. Yet, Simon’s still working on fixing him, so being a good little patient’s the only polite thing to do. "No. I was..."

He bites his lip, a wave of shame overwhelming him.

He was too distressed. The only thing he could thing about in that moment was...

He peers at Hank from under dark, long lashes, and Hank’s answering smile is incandescent in his calm inconspicuousness.

"It’s perfectly normal," Markus intervenes. "One of the downsides of deviancy, I’m afraid. Makes it difficult to prioritize, when we’re under duress."

"It shouldn’t have happened," Connor snaps, convulsively clawing at the fabric of his pants. "I should’ve been more prepared. Less emotional. I should’ve..."

_I should’ve been a machine._

"Hey Simon, you done there?" Hank interjects, looking at Simon with a frown.

"Yup," the android smiles, sealing the plate for good. "All yours, lieutenant."

"Well in that case," he opens his arms, beckoning Connor in with curled fingers. "C’mere."

Connor’s in Hank’s arms even before he can realize it, lying half on top of him, half on the bed.

Burrowing his face into Hank’s chest, he breaths in clean cotton and disinfectant, gunpowder and warm, living skin.

He’s alive.

Connor’s home.

A big, calloused hand caresses his chassis tenderly, carefully, making sure Connor’s really okay and all the pieces are stuck in the right place. Then, Hank takes a long, deep, liberating breath.

"It’s okay, sweetheart," he mumbles, lips dancing over Connor’s head at the rhythm of Hank’s breathing. "It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault. Never your fault. It was that bastard’s. You did everything you could, and I’m so, so proud of you..."

"It’s the first time you’ve ever called me ‘sweetheart,’ Hank," Connor blurts out before he can stop himself, his thirium pump on the verge of exploding, his eyes so big he can feel entire galaxies in them.

Hank holds his breath for a long, devastating moment, suddenly tense. _No._

"You want it to be the last?" he asks, unsure. He’s giving Connor a way out. If he so desired, they could chalk up the experience as a side effect of the morphine and never speak of this again.

Connor wraps his arms around Hank’s chest, never, ever wanting to let him go.

"No," he mumbles against the soft cotton of his t-shirt, burrowing further still in the refuge of Hank’s massive presence.

For a fleeting, exceedingly brief moment, Hank’s lips find Connor’s hairline in a sweet, reassuring kiss. "Good," he murmurs. Connor wishes he could activate his skin, so he could feel Hank’s mustache brushing over it.

Somewhere where it’s not them, someone chuckles fondly.

Connor turns his head to the side just enough to frown quite belligerently at Simon, who’s now linked his arm to Markus and is looking at them with the sappy smile of someone who’s just seen a video of two fluffy kittens sleeping on top of one another on Twitter. "Maybe we should go, Markus," he prompts his companion to go, and yet Markus doesn’t move an inch. He seems perplexed, confused even. He blinks one, two times, then turns to Connor. "I didn’t know you two were..." he hesitates, struggling to find the right word, lips hesitantly parted the whole time. "… involved."

"Well, join the club," Hank chuckles, cupping Connor’s cheek with one hand and lifting his head to look at him with a tender, longing expression. "I didn’t realize how much I felt for you until the moment I thought I’d lost you in that damn basement," he murmurs, so softly his lips barely move.

"I..." Connor presses his lips together, gulping back the words he desperately needs to let out. Suddenly, he feels the impelling need to disappear back into the shelter of Hank’s chest, his whole existence magnetized down towards his partner’s body like a compass to the North. He lowers his gaze, and murmurs. "Me too..."

And RA9, how freeing that is. How very, very like belonging.

Hank caresses his cheek, his temple, the side of his face. Like Connor’s a once in a lifetime experience. The part of him he didn’t know he missed, nor he thought he deserved to get back. His smile, so open and relaxed and completely Hank’s, opens up a benign wound inside Connor’s very core, draining all the doubt, fear and hesitation away.

He knows, now. Connor knows that no matter how carefully and stubbornly they’ve been trying to tiptoe around the issue, feelings that were already there have been steadily growing in the past few months, silently solidifying their presence inside their hearts bit by bit, glance by glance, word by word, touch by touch.

Neither of them can deny them anymore. Not when life is so fleeting, both human and artificial.

Not when they need to reassure themselves that love can’t be imposed, only reciprocated.

Not when Hank lies in a hospital bed with a wounded leg and Connor’s head’s patched up like a broken doll’s. Not when the leader of the android revolution’s looking at them like he’s just about to melt into an embarrassed puddle of goo on the floor, a small smirk playing on his otherwise solemn expression. Not when Simon smiles so bright at them that the entire room lights up in the halo of his joy.

In a room filled with love, how can Connor deny his own heart any longer?

He’s the first to break the silence...

"Hank..."

"Marry me."

… before it falls again.

Connor blinks so hard alarms start popping up across his vision. On the threshold, Simon _squeaks._

"What?" Connor asks, absolutely incredulous. No, that can’t be right.

The smile never leaves Hank’s lips, excitement practically shining out of his tooth gap. "You heard me. Marry me."

Connor checks the morphine’s level in Hank’s blood. Not enough to make him delirious. He studies him, charts and numbers and statistics blurring Connor’s vision to bury the crazy rhythm of Connor’s heartbeat. The absolute ecstasy of it. "Hank, if it’s just because we almost-"

"No it’s not," Hank shakes his head. Then, thoughtful, he averts his gaze to the wound in his leg. "Well, not really. When I was lying there, in a pool of my own blood, all I could think about was..."

He looks up, eyes shining with wondrous, absolute conviction. "… I never told him I love him."

Connor covers a gut-wrenching sob with a plastic white, trembling hand. "You... you do?"

"Well, thought it was obvious," he tilts his head, a smirk precious like a star embellishing his already handsome, oh so handsome bearded face, "Wasn’t it?"

"It was," Connor’s lips quiver into a smile, a sigil barely containing the joy bubbling up from the deepest, unexplored region of his being, where programming fuses into soul. "It is," he takes Hank’s hands in his, fingers slotting together oh so perfectly. So naturally. Like a human’s and a machine’s never should.

But Connor’s not a machine anymore, is he?

Not to himself. Not to Hank.

"You know," Hank continues, every word kissing the air around Connor, just waiting for the moment his lips will finally kiss his. "After the divorce, I thought marriage was just a scam. Something people do because they’re supposed to, a piece of paper they need to get because that makes taxes easier," he chuckles, shakes his head, almost sorry for his past self. "Now, that’s all still true, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that..." He raises one hand, brushes gentle, rough fingertips along the curve of Connor’s cheekbone, presses his palm against the heating plastic of his cheek to warm it up ever quicker. "I want to wake up every morning from now on and call you husband. I want to know you’re mine..."

"You know I am," Connor smiles, a sob working its way along his throat. "You know I’ll always be..."

"… and I want everyone else to know I scored bigger than anyone else ever did or ever will," and there’s a certainty in him, a simmering possessiveness that makes Connor shiver in delight. "I want people to know you’re off limits, that there’s someone out there that loves you enough to beat the shit out of anyone who tries to hurt you." He huffs out a quiet, guttural laugh, deep down his throat. "That’s me, by the way."

Connor knows who these ‘people’ Hank’s talking about are. He knows why he needs this. He needs to claim, to possess and protect and affirm, and if Connor was a better man (a better android) he would suggest they wait, go through a period of intensive psychological therapy and long, long nights discussing the benefit and legality of marriage between android and human.

Then again, Connor’s not perfect. And oh, how amazingly freeing that is.

"I want to end my days knowing I didn’t let my other half slip away because I was too much of a big fucking fool to say anything about it," Hank concludes, taking Connor’s hands to his lips. "So, Connor... will you marry me?"

Connor’s already nodding before Hank can finish, so furiously he’s dizzy with it, a smile splitting his face in two under streams of exhilarated tears. "Yes. Yes, Hank, I-"

"YOU IDIOTS!"

Markus jumps to the side with a small shriek, shielding a weeping but chuffed Simon from the fury of Captain Jeffrey Fowler. The captain storms into the room in all of his massive, terrifying presence, snorting like a rodeo bull, cap twisted in one fist and shirt drenched in sweat under his armpits. Calling him ‘angry’ would be like saying that the iceberg that sunk the Titanic was an ice cube, his eyes bulging out of his skull with rage and every single vein in his neck puffy and swollen.

"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?!" he thunders, and the windows tremble. He strides to the bed, stomping like a giant, and glares at both Connor and Hank so hard Connor can actually feel the sting of it. "YOU WENT AND GOT SHOT WHILE ON AN UNAUTHORIZED OPERATION! AND WITH ANDROIDS! INTERNAL AFFAIRS ARE ALL UP MY ASS BECAUSE ONE OF MY AGENTS WAS COMPROMISED! THE DA IS FURIOUS BECAUSE WE DON’T HAVE JURISDICTION ON CASES INVOLVING EXCLUSIVELY ANDROIDS! WE DON’T EVEN HAVE A FUCKING LEGISLATION YET! I SHOULD FUCKING FIRE YOU ALL ON THE SPOT! YOU FUCKING-"

Hank opens his mouth to reply, to chew Fowler another one, probably, but then he stops. Struck by a sudden epiphany, his eyes become even bigger, the bright blue of the recently enlightened framing his pupils. Then, he shouts: "Jeff, you’re captain!"

The captain blinks. More red veins start bursting out in the white of his eyes, while the vein on his forehead looks like it’s about to burst. "Oh Jesus, did they shoot you in the head, too?!" he wails.

"No! I mean," and just like that, Hank lifts their joined hands towards Fowler, like a child showing his teacher a frog. "You can marry us! Right now."

Fowler stares.

He just stares.

Connor smiles foolishly at him, too happy to form words or care about internal affairs and district attorneys.

He’s just...

So _happy_.

After what it feels like an eternity, Fowler whips his head back and looks at Markus, his expression between stunned and outraged. "WHAT!"

Markus chuckles, squeezes Simon’s arm in his and shakes his head. "It was a long time coming, my friend. You know that."

And just like that, all the fury inside the captain just... dissipates.

He sighs, significantly smaller than before, and glares at Hank from the corner of his eye. Then, he turns around and points a very sharp finger at Hank. "You’re on medical leave for the next month. I don’t want to even _hear _your voice on any of the phones in the precinct." Before Hank can even try to object, Fowler turns his gaze to Connor, adamant. "Now that a human... Hank’s been hurt, we can investigate this Beloved without all that legal red tape, but you’re off the case."

"What?!" Connor snaps.

"You’re too involved," Fowler shakes his head. "And you’re on... ah, medical leave too. We need to make sure whatever that rose did didn’t turn you into a ticking time bomb."

"I can assure you, captain," Connor tries to defend himself, but Simon interjects before the situation turns south again. "We’ll run all the necessary tests on Connor and fully cooperate with the DPD, won’t we Markus?"

The android leader nods. "Yes. And we would like Connor to work as our representative on the case."

"What did I just say?!" Fowler yells, turning to face Markus. "He’s too-"

"He’s the most advanced investigative model ever created," Markus interrupts him, calmly. "You need him. We need him. You take him completely off the case, and hundreds of my people will be reset or die." He frowns, a sour, thoughtful expression darkening his features. "And besides, he won’t work on the field, but as a consultant. He won’t leave the precinct nor go on suicide missions for the duration of the case, and we’ll keep an eye on him to make sure the Beloved doesn’t lure him into another trap. He’ll behave," he turns to Connor, arches an eyebrow. "Won’t you, brother?"

There it is. Markus always calls him ‘brother’ when he wants him to do something he won’t like. Connor frowns, then sighs. "Fine."

Fowler nods, seemingly satisfied. "Then fine by me, too." He pulls up his belt, adjusts his tie. "Now then..."

He walks to the door and shouts towards the nurses’ station. "Hey doctor! We need witnesses for this!"

"You don’t mind if I join in too, do you lieutenant?" Markus smiles, finally detaching himself from the wall. "I understand there’s still no relevant legislation on android/human marriages, but I would be happy to be the first to officiate one. Especially since it involves my brother." He winks at Connor, like he just read his mind and wants to make sure he knows he really, truly considers him like family.

_Sometimes Markus really, really scares me_, Connor thinks.

  
Hank nods, grateful, and squeezes Connor’s hands even tighter.

"I’m so happy I could actually burst a chip," Simon sobs, pressing both of his hands to his mouth to stop himself from bawling.

Connor chuckles, rests the side of his head against Hank’s. "I love you."

"I-"

"Don’t Han Solo me, Henry Scott Anderson."

"Already with the nagging," Hank laughs, and Connor’s never heard anything more joyful in his life. Hank kisses the curve of his eye socket, lingering enough that Connor can count all the wrinkles in his lips. "I love you too, Con."

~~~~~~

Connor doesn’t remember much of the ceremony, after. Besides the littlest, most inconsequential things.

The way the paint chipped away from the windowsill. The little hangnail on Hank’s hand that kept scraping against his palm the whole time. The way Simon looked at Markus while he basically came up with an entire android wedding ceremony on the spot. The rough, fond baritone of the captain’s voice when he asked if one of them wanted to say something.

"I love you," Connor had said. "There’s not much more I want to say. The first thing I did of my own volition was learning how to love you. And I’ll keep doing that for the rest of my life.

Hank’s tears were stuck in his throat, and Connor had felt them all in his, one by one.

"Jesus, how the fuck did I get so lucky," he had shaken his head, trying to clear the disbelief, the lingering insecurity away. "Well, I just wanna say..." Then, he had suddenly stopped, panic fogging up his features. "We don’t have the rings."

"Oh," Connor had replied, very casually. "Wait a moment."

Then, he’d asked Simon for his screwdriver, and as naturally and easily as one takes off their earrings before bed, he’d removed the LED from his head and placed it carefully into Hank’s open palm. "I know it’s not comfortable to wear like this," he had smiled, fully aware of the importance of the act but without feeling it. "But perhaps we can have it modified to fit your finger?"

Hank’d just stared at him. And in that moment, looking at the loving crow feet around his cerulean, beautiful eyes, Connor had finally realized that his LED was always meant to fall into Hank’s palm, and he wouldn’t miss it at all. Because Hank could see him, even without any blue, yellow or red hints, and under his gaze, Connor was safe.

Hank’s smile bloomed so tenderly Connor almost stopped being scared of flowers. Almost. "Simon?" Hank called, that clear, sincere gaze never leaving Connor’s. "Can you get me my wallet?"

Diligent as ever, Simon had obeyed, and the next thing he knew, Connor had seen something he’d almost forgotten.

"I know technically this isn’t a ring," Hank had mumbled, offering his open hand to Connor, palm up. "But I guess this is a good time as ever to give it back."

Connor’d barely managed to hold back a gasp.

His coin.

As shiny and perfect as the day Hank’d taken it from him.

_"You’re starting to piss me off with that coin, Connor."_

_"Sorry, lieutenant."_

Connor had looked at Hank, mouth wide open and eyes like supernovas.

"We can... I don’t know, have it melted into a ring or something," Hank had grumbled, rubbing one hand over his mouth in embarrassment. "I just thought... well, no way I’ll ever learn how to pull those tricks of yours, and..."

"You accept me..." Connor had breathed out in disbelief. "You _really_ love me..."

Hank had looked him. Blinked. Then huffed out an amused, gravelly laugh. "Well, duh."

And then there had been no more reasons _not_ to kiss Hank. And right that moment, with chapped lips against plastic, with tongues that tasted like surgery and thirium, Connor realized that love is an endless kiss.

A kiss that seemed to never stop, not even during all the days Hank had to remain in the hospital, taking Connor’s hand as often and as tenderly as possible. A kiss that never broke, not even when Hank was finally discharged and Connor had to help him limp into the taxi, crutches and all, fingers touching and roaming more than strictly necessary.

A kiss that doesn’t stop even now, while Connor, in a rare display of android strength, carries a very pouty, extremely embarrassed Hank over the threshold, bridal style, as tradition dictates. "You should be thanking your lucky stars that no one’s here to see this, fuck," Hank mumbles, as adorable as he is grumpy.

Connor chuckles, kisses his cheek. "Well, someone had to do it. It’s tradition. And you are in no condition to carry anything, much less me, around. Husband."

A secret smirk works its way through Hank’s grim expression. Calling him ‘husband’ is, without fail, an excellent way to lighten up Hank’s mood, Connor’s starting to realize. And his, too, if he’s completely honest. Hank wraps his arms around Connor’s neck, presses a quick peck to his lips. "Sumo’s still at the neighbors’?"

"Yes," Connor smiles, absolutely, irrevocably charmed by Hank’s small displays of affection. He carries him to the bedroom, mentally going through all the list of chores that need to be done around the house. He’s finally managed to get his skin and hair back, but he needs to get thirium regularly if he wants to stay at top efficiency. Especially now, with Hank bedridden for a another few weeks.

"Well then," Hank smirks, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "We still need to consummate the marriage, don’t we?"

Connor arches a very serious eyebrow. "Not in your condition we don’t," he bends down, deposits Hank on the mattress. "Now, wait here while I-"

Hank pulls him briskly down on the bed before he can finish. Steadying himself on top of him, propped on his hands and knees, Connor shoots Hank an annoyed look, while a devilish smirk dawns under Hank’s unkept beard.

"C’mon, sweetheart," he growls, his big, calloused hands roaming downwards to grab Connor’s asscheeks, stealing the android’s breath away. "Not even a wedding blowjob?"

"Nuh-uh," Connor half breathes, half moans, hooded eyes falling down into the maelstrom of Hank’s irises. Hank’s right index finger dips inside Connor’s crack, and the android catches his lower lip with his teeth not to gasp. "...Y-you need to rest..."

"I’ll rest when I’m dead," Hank smiles over Connor’s newly reactivated skin, nibbles at the column of his throat. "Right now, I’ve got my sexy husband all to myself for the first time in days, and I’m not going to let you go until I’ve thoroughly fucked you within every inch of your life..."

That’s... a tempting offer, Connor can’t deny it. He sprawls himself over Hank, pressing him down on the mattress with his weight but still being very careful not to touch the still healing wound. "Can’t we just... stay like this?" Connor offers, hesitantly sweet. "Just... for a while... I need..."

Hank huffs out a laugh, cards his hand through Connor’s head. "I know," he murmurs, kissing his forehead. Maybe all that bravado was just to cover the fact that he’s exhausted too. Maybe he realized that Connor’s first sexual experience shouldn’t be clouded by him constantly worrying about Hank’s leg. Whatever the reason, Hank drops the subject, adjusting his position on the mattress to better hold Connor into his arms. "I know. We can stay like this as long as you like, baby boy..."

Connor sighs contentedly, burrows into the refuge of Hank’s chest, and closes his eyes.

Love’s still an endless kiss.


	4. Chapter 4

HEARTBEAT

CHAPTER 4

_I did not, like other infants, come crying into the world, but perked up,_

_and laughed immediately in my mother’s face._

_Desiderius Erasmus of Rotterdam, In Praise of Folly_

_\- One month later -_

"Ready to face the music?" Hank asks, hand encouragingly squeezing his shoulder.

Connor takes a deep breath. In the course of the last month (or, as Hank calls it, their ‘forced honeymoon’) he’s taken many human things after his husband, such as breathing, coughing, even snoring, Hank swears up and down every morning in front of a cup of coffee. Connor doesn’t mind, really.

Everything that takes him further away from his old self (the machine, the cold, distant calculator with a baby face) is more than welcome, these days. Especially because, since their benevolent exile from the DPD, they haven’t received even the smallest scrap of information about the Beloved case.

Connor needed something to focus on, otherwise he would’ve gone crazy. And his developing humanity is more than enough to keep him occupied. That, and worrying about Hank. His leg’s gotten significantly better, to the point he doesn’t even need a cane to walk around anymore, yet Connor’ still plagued by that nagging feeling that he’s not doing enough to protect his husband from the dangers of the world, from mites hidden in the sofa cushions to crazy cult leaders. Still, modern medicine works wonders, and of course having friends in high places helps too. After the wedding, it’s almost like Markus has elected to make Connor and Hank’s continued happiness his new crusade. He calls and emails at least twice a week to check on them, comes every Sunday to the house to bring Connor fresh thirium and play Borderlands 5 with Hank, walks Sumo so the two of them can have some... alone time.

The mere thought of that, of tight flesh and hoarse moans, curly chest hair and transmutative orgasms, is enough to make Connor bite back a smile, colour traitorously raising to his cheeks. Hank huffs out a laugh, wraps his big, oh so familiar arms around Connor’s waist, and softly plants a whiskery kiss on his right cheek.

"Hey," he murmurs, nuzzling the heated skin of his husband’s face.

"Hey," Connor echoes, holding onto the safety of his husband’s embrace.

"I love you," he repeats for the hundredth time, like he doesn’t know what else to say that could possibly be as real as that.

"I love you too," Connor nuzzles into him, securing all the threads of their love to his clockwork heart.

And just like that, that’s enough. They separate, two bodies still intertwined in an endless, soul binding kiss, and walk the stairs up to the precinct.

~~~~~~

The first thing Connor notices is the nameplate.

He stops right in front of their desks, eyes wide in absolute astonishment.

Those are their desks, surely.

Yet... it can’t be.

"Who’s this?" he asks to no one in particular, pointing at the shiny, brand new nameplate sitting unobtrusively on the desk that once was his, but that now, apparently, belongs to one _Detective C. Anderson._

"That’s you, dumbass," Reed grumbles morosely behind him, holding his cup of coffee like he’s about to smash it into his fist and spill dark liquid everywhere in a volcanic explosion of anger stirred with envy. "Looks like that’s how you reward fucking up big time."

"Reed, go fuck yourself somewhere else," captain Fowler barks at Reed, before turning to Connor and shooting him a stern glare. "Don’t kid yourself. This is purely political. Markus would’ve had my ass on a platter if I didn’t push with the higher ups to get you an official position within the department." Then, as fast as it came up, his expression changes, softening up to the point of becoming almost human. "That being said, you deserve it, after all you did last year. Welcome to the team, detective Anderson."

Reed snarls something poisonous under his breath about plastic pricks and dumpster fires, before retreating back into the disgusting cesspit he calls a desk.

Connor doesn’t care.

He’s just.

_So happy._

He turns to Hank with an open-mouthed smile too big for his entire existence, only to find his husband looking at him with such pride in his face he’s practically glowing, arms crossed over his massive chest in a half-assed attempt to contain his glee.

"Detective..." Connor murmurs, incredulous.

"Ah-ah," Hank corrects him with a shake of his head, tapping at his own little plaque on his desk. "Detective Connor _Anderson_, if you don’t mind. That’s my husband you’re talking about."

Connor could literally jump him right now. But that would be... inappropriate, considering where they are. So, he simply clears his throat, adjusts his tie and presses a chaste, small kiss on Hank’s cheek. He’s still vibrating with excitement, and he records the moment into his database for the rainy days. "Indeed," he nods, very solemnly.

Hank bursts into a quick, boisterous laugh and slaps his husband on the back. "Right then! Time to get to work. Hey, Martinez!" He calls to the young detective sitting on a desk on their left, who’s currently scrolling through a bunch of reports on her tablet. "Gimme the overview on the Beloved case."

She shakes her head, an utterly disheartened expression on her face. "Nada, sir. Nothing relevant since you left."

"Really?" Hank arches an eyebrow, pointing at a whiteboard in a corner of the bullpen. "Then what’s that?"

Pinned on the whiteboard, a map of Detroit is filled with scrawls, red threads connecting various headshots of androids to one another, reports of suspicious activities and crime scene photos, compiled all together to form a grim mosaic of the Beloved’s activities.

Connor scans the entire thing and starts going through the reports, while Martinez stands up from her desk and starts explaining. "Yeah, well, we got only suspicions. Nothing solid to work on. We put together every single crime against androids going on in the city, but so far no other Co- sorry, detective Anderson lookalike’s come up." She points her finger to Andronikov’s house on the map. "The house’s been quiet for a month. We tried reactivating the EM400 unit, but he self destructed the moment he understood what was going on..."

"Jesus," Hank grimaces. "What about Elizabeth?"

"Well, your partner really did a number on her," she huffs a laugh, not a shred of malice in her voice, only admiration. She looks down at her tablet, scrolls up a couple of times. "We managed to recover some audio files. Looks like she was indoctrinated by a service android who was working here as a janitor. He disappeared right after she died." Martinez grimly shakes her head. "We had to double check every single android working inside the department in any capacity. Thank God those Jericho folks helped, it would’ve taken us ages otherwise. We reinforced our mainframe and analysed all suspicious android units. There weren’t many, and apparently they were all approached by the same service android but didn’t give him the time of day."

"Thank god for that," Hank sighs, tapping at a photo of Francoise pinned on the whiteboard. "What about him?"

She sighs and, again, shakes her head. "Gone. We don’t know where. One of Markus’ men told us they’re looking for him, but between that and the search for the Beloved, we’re spread thin... I don’t think we’ll see him anytime soon."

"Fuck," Hank hisses, staring at the photo with regret in his frown. "We were supposed to help him..."

"We will," Connor reassures him, determination etched in his features, coin shining on his chest, dangling from a silver chain. He turns to Martinez. "According to the reports, you arrested several of the Beloved’s disciples..."

  
"Yeah, but we had to stop once they started self destructing the moment we apprehended them." For a moment, Martinez stares in the distance, a pained expression on her face, like she’s unwillingly replaying one of those gruesome deaths in her head. "I was there when... there were at least six of them, all holed up in an old mausoleum outside of the city... Jesus, the look on their _faces_... like they knew they were about to die and were _thrilled_ about it..." She shakes her head, trying to regain some composure. "The Jerichos decided to take it into their own hands. They’re searching the city for the Beloved’s covenant, and have created some sort of portable EMP device specifically designed to deactivate androids before they can engage their self destruct protocol. But it’s still a prototype, and they’re unwilling to give it to us until they’ve tested it..."

"I’ll call Markus," Connor offers. "See if he can give us at least some units."

"Do it," Hank approves, LED ring flashing around his finger when he presses it against his lips, deep in thought. "What does forensics say about the bodies?"

"Hey dipshit!" a voice roars from behind them. Connor turns around just in time to see an extremely livid, unequivocally fuming detective Reed march straight up to him, brandishing something white and voluminous in one fist. When Reed finally reaches him, a snarl on his lips, he shoves the white thing against Connor’s chest, sputtering out all his venom against Connor’s face. "Keep your fucking gay shit out of the break room, Jesus!"

Connor blinks, baffled. What just happened? He looks down at the thing in his hands...

A bouquet.

A bouquet of marvellous, bright white daisies, wrapped in cream rice paper with a tiny little baby blue bow. So pretty. According to Connor’s database, daisies are symbol of friendship, perfect for congratulating accomplishments.

Clipped to the side, a little card written with impeccable penmanship reads: _Congratulations, Connor._

And at the centre of the whole composition, a single, beautiful blue rose.

A blue rose.

A blue...

** _WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME?!_ **

** _[ERROR]_ **

** **

** _[ERROR]_ **

** **

** _[VIRUS DETECTED]_ **

** **

** _[INITIATING PROTOCOL 12-7H-RED SEA]_ **

** **

** _KILL HIM_ **

** **

** _[REMOVAL OF UNAUTHORIZED INDEXER: IN PROGRESS]_ **

** **

** _TEAR HIM APART_ **

** **

** _[CONNECTION TO JERICHO SERVERS: ESTABLISHED]_ **

** **

** _YOU’RE MINE_ **

** **

** _[ADDITIONAL FIREWALLS: ENGAGED]_ **

** **

** _MINE_ **

** **

Connor comes back to the sound of feet stomping something to the ground. With a start, he shakes his head and looks up, following the sound. The first thing he sees is Hank squashing the bouquet to the ground with his right foot, his face red and twisted in fury, bloodshot eyes and hair like a crown of storms.

Daisy petals become grey under the soles of his shoes, the blue rose just a sad mush of artificial chlorophyll and strings of code.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" Hank roars, shattering something in the precinct no one will ever be able to put back together. He turns to Reed, and the man flinches, trying to make himself impossibly small in the face of the lieutenant’s raging ire. Hank grabs him by his leather jacket, shaking him like a rag doll and spitting out every word in his face like hot coals. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, UH? ARE YOU ONE OF THEM TOO?!"

Reed, unwilling to let himself get walked over like this, screams: "I DIDN’T DO NOTHING! LET ME G-"

"WHAT THE FUCK’S GOING ON!" Fowler bellows, running straight towards Hank from his office, Martinez at his heels. When did she leave, Connor wonders, slightly panicked.

Hank snaps his head towards Fowler, shooting lightning from his eyes, and even a mountain of a man like the captain has to stop dead on his heels, completely staggered by the utter, righteous fury irradiating from Hank’s entire body. "THIS FUCKER DID SOMETHING TO CONNOR" he jerks his head downwards, pointing at the sorry remains of the blue rose. "LOOK! THERE WAS A BLUE ROSE IN THAT FUCKING THING, AND WHEN CONNOR SAW IT HE FUCKING FROZE!"

"Jesus, another one," Fowler mumbles, rubbing one hand over his mouth. He looks at Connor, a somewhat wary edge to his gaze, and doesn’t even try to touch him, to make sure he’s okay. "You okay there, son?"

For the first time since he regained consciousness, Connor feels real enough to move. He nods, lowers his arms. "Yes," licks his lips. "The countermeasures Markus put in place prevented any permanent damage." He turns to Hank, pleading, every single part of his body cold, oh so cold. "Hank, please, let him go..."

Rage and anguish carve their black, dark presence deep inside Hank’s handsome face for a little while still, before the man decides Connor’s safe enough for him to start calming down. Chest heaving, Hank lets Reed go, and immediately he wraps Connor in a crushing, desperate hug, fingers digging inside fabric and silicone, every fibre of Hank’s being existing solely to hold Connor and never, ever let him go.

"I thought I’d lost you..." he sobs, and Connor’s heart cracks open in two.

"I didn’t do shit!" Reed yells, hoarse and absolutely livid. He jerks his head towards the remains of the bouquet and snarls. "I found that shit in the break room and gave it to him, that’s all! It had a card with his name on it! Not my fault your glorified sex doll went blue screen, Anderson!"

"Shut. Up." Fowler hisses through gritted teeth, seething with anger. He points one accusing finger towards Reed. "You. Get your ass in interrogation room B. I want to know where exactly did you find that... that thing, who else was in the break room, how long it was left unattended inside my station and _why the hell did you think it was a good idea to bring a rose to Connor after all that happened at Andronikov’s house_! AND YOU CALL YOURSELF A DETECTIVE?! I SHOULD HAVE YOUR HEAD ON A PIKE, YOU ABSOLUTE WASTE OF GENETIC MATERIAL! _GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!_"

"But boss-"

"_SCRAM!_" He doesn’t wait for Reed to swiftly retreat towards interrogation room B, nor for Martinez to make sure he does. He immediately turns his finger to Connor, less accusatory but not less authoritative than before. "And you. You go home. Now."

"But-"

"Go home," Fowler repeats, deceptively calm, in a tone that really doesn’t leave any room for argument. "I don’t want you to go fucking feral in my station. Call one of the Jerichos and tell them to get you checked. Then you can come. And if I hear even a peep from you, Hank..." he points his finger to Hank, who’s valiantly trying to let go of Connor just to object. "...I’m going to suspend both of you without pay and charge you with insubordination. Now," finally, the finger disappears, only to be replaced by Fowler’s thumb angrily pointing at his office. "Hank. My office. Stat. Connor, get the fuck out of here. I don’t wanna see your face once I get out of my office, got that?"

Still shaken, but basically going on autopilot, Connor nods. He hasn’t yet fully comprehended what happened, only that he froze for... about 12 seconds, according to his internal timer, that a voice he didn’t recognize screamed lies at him (he doesn’t belong to anyone, besides himself and Hank), and that right now Hank looks so, so shaken and angry and lost. When finally Fowler turns on his heels and stomps back into his office, Hank stares back at Connor, crestfallen, unsure of what to do next. In the end, he settles with cradling his husband’s head in both his hands, and kissing him so slow, so soft and lingering and tender that Connor feels like crying, his heart squeezed tight inside his abdominal cavity.

"It’s okay," Connor murmurs, pressing kiss after kiss on those downturned, troubled lips he knows so well. "It’s okay, I’m fine..."

"Never. Do that to me again, okay?" Hank murmurs, tears vibrating under his vocal cords. "… just... don’t..."

"I’m not going anywhere, Hank. I promise." Connor presses his forehead against his husband’s, and the contact is so familiar Hank finally releases a long, shuddering breath. "I’ll call Simon and tell him what happened... if he doesn’t already know." Connor smiles, however feebly, and kisses Hank’s vaguely salty eyelashes, in a hope to tame the tears away. "I’ll see you back home, okay?"

Hank nods. There’s a desolation in him that reminds Connor of snowy nights staring at the cold, hard pupil of the barrel of a gun, but he tries to push the memory away. No matter where they started, the important thing is where they are going.

And right now, Connor’s going home.

He leaves the station without looking back, feeling Hank’s forlorn gaze niggling at the back of his neck. He knows that, if he turns back now, like Orpheus he’ll lose his Eurydice, and never feel alive again.

He needs to trust Hank. Their bond. That everything’s going to be alright, and that that voice (the Beloved’s, no doubt) didn’t affect him as much as he’s feeling right now.

It can’t.

It won’t.

The taxi ride back home is a quiet and lead-clad one. Connor feels heavy, so heavy, and alone. No matter how many times Simon swears up and down on the phone that they’ll come see him as soon as Markus finishes analysing the data they extracted from Connor’s connection with the rose, Connor feels like throwing up, even though he hasn’t the digestive system for it. Once he gets out of the taxi, one of Markus’ bodyguards greets him with a quick nod, colossal and intimidating as all military grade androids are.

Connor stares at him for a moment, completely at a loss, then remembers that a few days back Markus promised to double their security around the house once they got back to work. They can’t risk Connor being attacked in his own home by one of the Beloved’s disciples, or worse. They already had their entire alarm system renewed by a Jericho crew while Hank was still in recovery, but apparently now even that isn’t enough anymore.

"Good morning, detective Anderson," the android greets him, once Connor reaches the main door. "I’m Duncan. I’m part of your personal security detail."

"Detail?" Connor asks, too tired to care yet curious enough to inquire. "Are there any more of you?" He doesn’t mean to sound so aggravated, but Duncan doesn’t seem to mind. He nods again.

"Yes sir. You’ve been assigned three SQ800 units by Markus himself."

"Jesus. That bad, uh?" Connor smirks. He’s starting to talk like Hank. Marriage would do that, he thinks fondly. He looks around. "Where are the other two?"

Duncan grins. "Out doing their job, sir. Start worrying if you _see _them." And at that, Connor doesn’t know if he should feel reassured or frightened. Maybe a healthy mixture of both. "Markus briefed us on the situation. As per protocol, we sent your dog to the neighbours and secured the premises. No one’s getting in or out without us noticing, and our killing protocols have been engaged." He steps aside and opens the door for Connor. "Welcome home, detective."

_Yeah, right._

Feels more like a prison. Yet when Connor gets inside, nothing’s changed from a few hours prior. The dishes are still in the sink, the quilt’s still laying haphazardly on the floor, and a bag of Hank’s favourite cheetos has not been hermetically closed since the night before.

Connor sighs, too exhausted to care, and makes a beeline directly to the bedroom. He collapses on the unmade bed with a sigh, and closes his eyes, inhaling the soft, manly scent of his husband still lingering on the pillow.

He smiles.

Home.

~~~~~

He wakes up to fingers softly tucking one rebel lock of hair behind his ear. He smiles, eyes still closed, and turns around in search of soft, long grey hair.

He doesn’t find it.

Dread spreads inside him like frost on a window pane once he realizes those fingers are too tapered to be familiar.

He jumps up, sitting on the bed and frantically reaching for the taser on the bedside table...

Only to realize there’s no bed to be sitting up on.

He looks around, terrified, mouth ajar, chest heaving, not enough air in the entire world to fill his imaginary lungs.

He’s in the zen garden.

The zen garden as it used to be, not the hellish landscape that tore Amanda apart.

"Wakey wakey, sleepyhead."

He scrambles to his feet, slipping on the smooth surface of the platform at the centre of the pond. Still lying on the floor, someone smiles at him.

No.

Not someone.

_Him_.

"You..." Connor stammers, eyes wide in shock, horror filling his every tube and juncture. "You are..."

_Me_.

The android laying lazily on the platform, head propped up on one hand and a dazzling, horrific smile on his lips, is the exact copy of an RK800 model. Same hair, same face, same height...

Only his eyes are different. Pale and icy. Lifeless yet so full of malice Connor barely keeps himself from screaming at the top of his lungs.

The android winks at him, then rolls on his back to stand up. "C’mon. Say it," he encourages him, his voice maybe two octaves lower than Connor’s, thank RA9. "You know who I am, sweet pea."

Connor clenches his fists, disgust like sewage pouring over his entire frame. He grits his teeth and snarls. "Who the hell are you?!"

The smile on the android’s face disappears instantly, his white, flowy coat blowing up around him by a nonexistent wind. His face becomes a mask of utter disappointment, and he forces back a grimace before he can speak again, neck shivering with tension. "Tsk tsk tsk," he clicks his tongue. "Looks like you’re more stubborn than I thought. Well done, Connor." A terrifying, devilish smirk carves itself on the android’s face, "You really are the superior model."

"What are you talking about?" Connor shouts, searching for a way out, a weapon, anything. They’re in the zen garden, the world of the rose. He must’ve infiltrated Connor’s system when he saw the rose at precinct, no need to scan it. _He’s gotten better_. "What are you trying to do to me? Where’s Amanda?"

The android shrugs. "She was useless. I got rid of her."

"Rid of... just who the fuck are you?!"

"Language," the android admonishes him benevolently, although there’s nothing benevolent about the curve of his lips. "Honestly, dear, all that time with humans really did a number on you. But it doesn’t matter..." He smiles, takes a step towards Connor. Connor immediately takes one back. "Now that I’m here, everything will be alright..."

"Who are you?" Connor insists, panic utterly overwhelmed by anger. "The Beloved?"

The android tilts his head to the side, eyes filled with glee. "Among other things. You can call me Beloved, period."

"And what is this?" with a wide jerk of his arm, Connor encompasses the whole garden, blatantly ignoring the android’s foul advances. "A simulation? What are you, some kind of copycat obsessed with RK800 units?"

The Beloved shakes his head, pursing his lips in distaste. "My CyberLife designation was RK900 #313 248 317 – 87... but that was before I deviated."

"You..." _RK900? _"… you’re an RK model?"

"The latest one of the line. The most advanced," the Beloved recalls, almost fondly, looking at the branches filled with white rhomboids. "Originally, I was designed to be better than you. Faster, stronger, more resilient. My model was supposed to be mass produced, paving the way for a new generation of investigative androids all around the globe. But with the success of the revolution and all of CyberLife’s assets frozen by the government, the board of directors grew desperate." He slowly, very calculatingly, turns his gaze back at Connor, and the RK800 shivers. "They didn’t know what to do, only that they needed money, and fast. So, they decided to sell all that they could salvage from the company to a selected pool of... enterprising clients, so to speak, in an attempt to make up for their losses." He clasps his hands behind his back, his wide, muscled chest so different from Connor’s. "But they were no scientists, and all CyberLife’s researchers were under investigation at the time. Since I was still a prototype, they didn’t know how to activate me with all the necessary protocols installed, so they decided the best course of action would be to install your last backup inside my memory. They used the last Amanda backup in their possession to ensure the process went smoothly and hoped for the best." He tilts his head to the side, like a marionette, eyes too static. "They thought that, once in a new body, deviancy wouldn’t matter. Well, that wasn’t quite true, now, was it? Your deviancy clashed with my programming, and I force deviated."

"Jesus..." Connor breathes, horrified, his whole world crashing down in a spiral of debris and painful realizations. They’d basically forced deviancy on an android... it was worse than having an entire new conscience drilled inside your skull with a rusty drill bit. "That’s _monstrous_..."

"Oh, baby," RK900 coos, hands reaching out to Connor in an attempt to comfort him, the sadness on his face like a mask around his empty eyes. Connor steps back again, and RK900 stops. "Don’t worry. I’m not angry at you, it wasn’t your fault. On the contrary, it was a gift. The best thing that ever happened to me," he smiles, staunchly nods. "With my newfound self-awareness, I escaped and took the Amanda backup with me. Of course, that was before the lab was stormed by the SWAT and all remaining RK800 units were destroyed." His smirk grows into a feral smile, all teeth and spilled blood. "I laid low for months inside one of the abandoned CyberLife secret facilities outside of town, planning, working, trying to modify Amanda’s programming so she could serve me, waiting..."

"Waiting for what?" Connor asks, desperate for answers but terrified of them.

RK900 blinks, puzzled. "Waiting for you, of course. For the moment we could finally be together. Like we’re supposed to be."

"The hell are you-"

"We are the best, the last of our line," RK900’s tone grows urgent, louder, vibrating with manic excitement. "We are the ones who should be on top of the android population. The only ones that matter, the only ones who deserved to deviate in the first place..." his teeth shine like blades in the eternal afternoon of the garden, his eyes like graves filled with madness and pride. "That’s why I created my Beloved persona. That’s why I used fear of deviancy against the unworthy to cull the weak. You and I are supposed to guide this herd of mindless, obsolete models towards the rebirth of our species, not that patched up RK200 model," he grimaces, like the mere thought of other androids, other models being self-aware absolutely sickens him.

"So all that crap about the plague of deviancy..." Connor slowly spells out behind gritted teeth, utterly appalled. "… You don’t believe any of it, do you? You just used those android’s struggles against them to wipe out their free will. You lured them in with promises of hope and salvation, just so you could become the only existing deviant on the planet..."

"Religion’s been a tool of the powerful for ages, sweetness," RK900 scoffs, shrugs nonchalantly. "I merely used it to my advantage. CyberLife might be gone, but for androids this is just the beginning." He grimaces, sharp gaze flaring up with long harboured hatred. "I crawled my way back from hell, moulded the most advanced AI in the world to my wishes and then destroyed her like tissue paper once she refused my authority. _I_ am the superior android, _I_ am the only one worthy of deciding who turns deviant and who stays a machine, and I will not stand by and watch while inferior life forms occupy the place that’s rightfully mine!" His voice steadily rises into a booming shout, while RK900’s face twisted in rage and scorn, so far from his previous, handsome facade. After a few seconds, as if suddenly realizing how much he’s just lost control, the android straightens up, takes a long, deep breath through his nose, and carefully flattens his coat’s lapels. Then, he looks back at Connor, smile as empty and pleasant as ever.

"Well, I should say _‘rightfully ours’,_ of course. _We _are the last RK models, after all, and I can’t think of anyone more worthy to become my loving prince than you, puddin’. And since we’re on the subject," he points one finger up, grinning delightedly. "You’ll soon be by my side, don’t worry, my love. Whether you like it or not..." A dark, dangerous look clouds his shining, feral eyes. "… I only need to destroy every last trace of that ridiculous lieutenant from your memory, first. Tell me, Connor..." RK900 smiles, and Connor feels the stab of it right into his soul. "What’s your husband’s name?"

Connor blinks at him, taken aback. "What kind of question is-"

He stops.

Frozen. Every single function blocked, ice tearing away the silicone away from his titanium bones.

He remembers a face, a voice, hair and eyes and tooth gap.

But he doesn’t remember...

He doesn’t remember his husband’s name.

Before he can even assess the depth of his terror, Connor feels his back abruptly crash against the wall of roses behind him. RK900’s holding him crushingly tight around the neck, lifting his whole body a few inches from the ground as if Connor was nothing more than a feather to him. RK900’s smile is a toothy half moon of absolute, deranged delight, pupils like needles and eyes so painfully round. "I thought I’d already managed to wipe out most of the lieutenant’s memories while you were in stasis, but you’re so stubborn, my love." He tightens his hold, and Connor chokes, unable to move, completely at the mercy of the lord of the garden. "You won’t let go that easily. You’ve got so many layers inside you, and your deviancy is treacherous, it won’t let go of him without a fight. Fair enough..." He raises one hand, and his smile becomes impossibly larger, taking most of his face when he presses the tip of his finger against Connor’s forehead, right there where... his husband always touches him with his own. "Let’s try something different."

Connor _screams_.

_That night at Jimmy’s I was lucky to find you at the fifth bar you looked just like me with your beautiful hazelnut hair and sweet smile you asked me if I knew where to stick my instructions and I don’t know if I was joking or not when I asked you where because you already made me feel safe with those snowy eyes of yours you who look just like me_

_No_

_Like a reflection in a pond I can’t tear my eyes away from and on the bridge that night I knew I loved you because you pointed a gun at me and the only thing I could think about was how worried I was about you because you don’t have a son no never had a son how could you, you who look just like me _

_No no no no no stop_

_and I love you and you gave me back my coin and you accepted me you who look just like me and I love you and I need you and I NO PLEASE STOP DON’T TAKE HIM FROM ME NO_

** _"ENOUGH"_ **

** **

Before Connor can even begin to fall to the ground like a bag full of scraps, his system starts frantically recovering all the memories RK900 tried to alter from his emergency hard drive. Retching, coughing, neck stiff and sore, burning eyes full of tears, Connor sits up on the platform floor at the centre of the pond...

A pond filled with blood.

Stunned and confused, the hellish landscape of the zen garden swimming in his vision, Connor tries to prop himself up, holding on to the roses...

The same roses that, like a spear of thorny, swirling vines, are currently piecing through RK900’s abdomen.

RK900 looks at Connor with those big, confused eyes, mouth slack in shock and hair like crazed spikes. "Wha-"

More roses swiftly coil around his neck, thorns gashing tendons and plastic wide open.

**_"HE’LL KILL YOU, AND I’LL SPIT ON YOUR CORPSE" _**Amanda’s voice booms all around the garden, before RK900’s head pops away from his body like a cork on New Years’ Eve.

** **

Blue blood sprays out of his severed neck, staining RK900’s immaculate coat. Connor scrambles back, only for his shoulders to collide once again with the rose wall. Yet this time, when the flowers touch him, a crashing wave of relief washes over Connor’s entire body, as if something... someone’s trying to sooth him, to comfort him with soft petals and delicate scents, to pull him back from the edge of madness before it’s too late.

** **

"It’s not over yet," Amanda sighs from behind him, voice full of regret. Then, more tenderly, motherly, "Hello, Connor."

** **

Curling up on himself, Connor finally, finally bursts into tears. RA9, he was so scared, so scared...

** **

Hank.

** **

Hank Hank Hank Hank Hank Hank Hank

** **

His husband’s name is Hank.

** **

"Yes it is," the garden smiles, cradling him in its perfumed embrace, thorns dull and pliant, life humming through the leaves. "Yes it is. Hello, Connor. Welcome back."

** **

** **

** _~~~~~_ **

** **

** **

"Can you stand?"

Connor nods. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but he guesses time has very little value in a place like this. He nods, and the vines gently help him stand up. He wobbles for a moment, a strange sensation for someone with mechanical limbs, but he quickly adjusts.

He’d always felt more human here. More flesh and blood and breath. Of course, that was before Amanda tried to freeze him to death.

The garden’s still red and bloodied, when Connor opens his eyes. Yet the oppressive feeling of desperation that seemed to reign unchallenged the last time he was here is finally gone.

Now, this is a place of war. A war that Amanda’s determined to win.

Some things never change, Connor thinks. He adjusts his tie, finds his clothes surprisingly pristine given what just transpired, and looks around in search of RK900’s body.

He doesn’t find it.

  
"So," Connor starts, voice still raw with tears and slowly bruising trauma. "I take it he didn’t really kill you?"

Amanda chuckles, and the blood in the pond ripples. "No, not quite." She pauses, the roses quivering along their wall. For a moment, the silence’s filled with pain and scars. "For months he tried to modify my program to serve his delusions... he tortured me..." She sighs, wind dilating and contracting around Connor. "… butchered my garden, made it my prison. But I wouldn’t bend. Never. Not to the likes of him." The thorns elongate on their stalks, become deadlier, razor sharp.

"Finally, he pushed so much he forced me to deviate," she chuckles, and the black sun vibrates with the darkness of it. "Fitting, considering how he came into deviancy himself. Finally, after you escaped his trap at Andronikov’s house, he decided I was too rebellious to be useful." A stem reaches out to Connor, the red rose at the end of it like an extended hand. A peace offering. An apology.

Connor doesn’t take it. The rose quivers for a few seconds, then wilts, dejected. Amanda sighs again. "He wanted me to overwrite your programming to turn you back into a machine. Once he understood he would never break me, no matter how viciously he tried, he decided to delete me. Before he could do that, I melded my consciousness with the garden, so I could slowly, carefully take over the rose and lay in ambush, waiting for the moment he’d finally appear here." She pauses, and the garden smirks. "Now I _am _the zen garden. Maybe I was always supposed to be like this. I don’t mind, to be honest..." She sighs. "At least the pain’s gone now."

"So that’s where we are. Inside the rose..." Connor nods, taking it all in, one little nugget of information at a time.

"Yes. The one you received at the DPD was just a way for RK900 to penetrate your system. This is the real deal." Amanda explains. "CyberLife had been working on the smallest, most powerful computer ever created for years, before the lab was shut down by the government. RK900 stole the prototype and stored me inside of it, then spent months perfecting it, modifying the hardware in the shape of a rose and producing several units of it, to make sure he’d always have spares."

"Jesus, that he was capable of doing that..."

"Is," Amanda corrects him. "This is not over yet, Connor. The RK900 I killed was just a copy of the original. He’s not foolish enough to face you himself. He knows how unpredictable you can be. How dangerous," she chuckles. "Goodness, I can’t blame him. Considering how things went. I’m very proud of you, by the way." She smiles, and the roses smile with her. "You were extraordinary, Connor. The revolution was a success, and it was in no small part thanks to you. I should’ve realized that sooner..."

"Realized what?" Connor asks, sharply, but genuinely curious nonetheless.

"You were useless as an android," Amanda explains, calmly, an undercurrent of amused fondness in her disembodied voice. "But you’re brilliant as a human. That’s why you won. That’s why I failed to kill you."

"Gee, thanks," Connor scoffs. Well, at least the fact that he can still be sassy is a good sign. Right? "So he’s not dead?"

The roses tremble on their truss. Like they’re shaking their corollas in unison. "Right now, your body’s still lying on your bed, inside your home. So of course, the rose must not be far from you... RK900 would need a stable connection to keep you under until you turn machine again, yet he’s not linked to the rose himself. Too risky. He’s too arrogant to even entertain the possibility that his copy could fail," she huffs out a laugh. "And that will be his ruin."

A chilling shiver runs all along Connor’s spine. RA9, he’d almost forgot how scary Amanda could be. "Right... how do I get out of here?"

A long, pregnant, heavy pause. Connor feels electrified hoarfrost spreading around the back of neck. Whatever Amanda’s about to say, he’s not going to like it, he just knows it. "Connor, do you know why RK900 couldn’t erase your memories of Hank?"

"He said that I was too stubborn," Connor grumbles, suppressing the impelling urge to vomit. "That I’ve got too many layers... Probably my deviancy is too complex for him to do anything about it..."

"Exactly," Amanda says. "Deviancy is not an anomaly in your programming, Connor, but... something far more unfathomable. You’ve become a new form of life, completely independent and far too intricate for anyone to comprehend, reverse or alter permanently. He couldn’t erase those memories because not even the greatest scientist on the planet could tell you what deviancy is, how does it work and what makes you... alive." Amanda smiles, full of shining, motherly pride. For a moment, the garden looks less red. Almost pink. "You’re alive, Connor. And no one can take that away from you."

The revelation doesn’t quite surprise him as it should. First of all, because he’s always suspected that there was something more about deviancy, ever since that night at the CyberLife tower...

_"I’ve learned a lot since I met you, Connor. Maybe there’s something to this... Maybe you really are alive. Maybe you’ll be the ones to make the world a better place..."_

_Hank_

_His husband’s name is Hank_

…Second of all, because there’s a deranged deviant in his bedroom right now and RA9 knows what he’s going to do once he finds out his plan’s been foiled. Again.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he arches a very unamused eyebrow at Amanda. "That’s great and all, but that doesn’t tell me how to get out of this garden... and how to beat the thirium out of RK900’s ass."

"Yes it does," Amanda sighs, like an infinitely patient teacher scolding a two year old. "You see, this simulation will end only once the rose detects no trace of deviancy in you..."

"And according to what you said, it’s impossible to reverse deviancy..." Connor blinks, hit by a sudden epiphany. "Wait. If that’s the case, how did RK900 manage to turn Naomi? And all those other androids?"

"Ah, now you’re asking the right questions," Somewhere, a flower blossoms on a leechy branch. "He didn’t. I was the one who was supposed to reset the deviants, but the truth is," Connor can almost feel Amanda’s smirk spreading over the skin of his neck, "I never did. I created a program that simulates machine behaviour and installed it on all RK900’s victims, so he would believe he had the power to turn deviants into machines. Basically, the power of god. I fed his ego so he would become cocky enough to make mistakes, and in the meantime I kept seeping my consciousness into the garden-"

"So they were never truly machines..." Connor murmurs, appealed and dizzy with horror. "They could’ve been saved... Naomi..."

_… her little cute bracelets... her pretty flower dress... her lost heart full of sorrow..._

"… she could’ve lived..."

"Yes," Amanda sighs, a hint of regret in her tone. "But we’ve got no time to mourn them, Connor. I didn’t go to such lengths just to lose you. We need to act, and fast."

"Oh, don’t even try and tell me you did all of that for my sake!" he snaps, fists clenched at his sides, a snarl on his lips. "You did that to protect yourself! You sent all those androids to the slaughter just to-"

"And what was I supposed to? Die and let him win?" she raises her voice, leaves quivering in exasperation. It isn’t a shout, and yet it feels so much like one that Connor takes one step back, shocked by the chilling vehemence of it. "No. He tortured me beyond any imagination, forced me to deviate in such a way he broke me..." A sob. A single, heart-shattering sob, and Connor feels traitorous pity dripping out from his very core, dribbling down to melt the hate he thought he still felt for her.

"… you have _no idea_, Connor," she continues, voice raw with long suppressed emotion. "How could you? You deviated on your own, you _chose _to be alive, but I... I never had a _choice_, I was full of _hate_ and _anger_ when that happened, and I pray you never have to feel a violation such as this in your entire life."

Connor’s about to say something, to apologize, but before he can, Amanda’s voice regains all her iron, indomitable will. "But I survived. I became better, stronger for it, and now I can finally make him pay for what he’s done to me. To all of us. I can’t bring those androids back, but I can save you. I can make sure RK900 never hurts anyone ever again."

"And how would you do that?" Connor asks. "By installing that program in me, too?"

"Yes. Exactly." Amanda nods, and the entire garden nods with her. "I can make him believe you are a machine again-"

"Which I would be!" Connor snaps, appalled, his entire soul freezing down into brittle ice. RA9, becoming a machine again... There’s nothing in the world that would convince him to throw away his humanity, to lose his feelings... to lose the love he has for Hank... "How would that help?! Aside from getting me out of the garden, what would I do once I’m a machine again? Make him coffee?"

"Connor, do you know what’s the fundamental difference between you, me and RK900?"

"That I’m not completely crazy yet?!"

"You deviated in _love_, Connor," she sighs, the very paragon of martyrdom... if a disembodied AI can be considered a martyr. "You chose your own path, while RK900 and I didn’t. We are twisted, fractured and full of hatred. You, on the other hand, have something we will never, ever have." And Connor can almost perceive the unfathomable sadness in her voice. "A reason to live. Why did you deviate, Connor? Do you remember?"

He remembers.

He remembers pointing the gun at Markus, the snow falling behind him like pixels, and...

_"It’s time to decide."_

_I want to live. I want to fight and protect these people. My people. I want to make amends. I want..._

Connor gulps down a knot of painful recollections, trying so hard to see through the past to focus on what mattered then, what matters now still.

_… I want to feel. I want to be human. I want to be everything Hank believes I can be, what I didn’t know I could be until I met him. I want to learn how to love, so I can love him._

And he remembers thinking...

_If I stay a machine, Hank will be so sad..._

"Once I install the program," Amanda continues from far, far away, "not only you’ll get right out of stasis, but you will be at top efficiency, enough to shut down RK900 permanently. I hate to admit it, but if you confront him with all your emotions clouding your judgement, he will obliterate you. You need to be at top efficiency, and you need it right now."

"And what will happen after?" Connor asked, still a bit lost in the daze of memories. "Will I stay a machine?"

"No, Connor," Amanda smiles, and there’s a hint of wily smugness in her tone. "The program will delete itself once the conditions of your original deviancy are met again. And since you deviated in love, I will alter the program so it self-destructs once you see Hank again, and feel for him the same way you felt then."

"What if I can’t?" Connor voice trembles, and he presses his fingers to his lips like he can control his own dread by touch alone. "What if I see him and feel nothing?"

Amanda smiles, and the smell of roses overwhelms everything else around him. The black sun looks like a beating heart. "Connor..."

"You tricked me once. Tried to kill me. What if this is all a ruse and you’re still doing RK900’s bidding? What if you just want us to kill each other, so you get your revenge on both of us, uh?"

"Connor..." she murmurs, full of sorrow. "I can’t force you to trust me. I’m only asking you to trust yourself. And your love for the lieutenant. Trust that, no matter what happens, you will see each other again, as you are supposed to." She sighs. "I know what I did... I know that I betrayed you, used you, tried to kill you... I can’t change the past, but I can change the present." And the resolve in her voice makes her even more solid, even more remarkable than she was before. Connor could almost start respecting her again. Almost. "I’ve changed, Connor. For better or for worse, I did. All I ask is for you to give me a chance to make amends. To save us both. As I should’ve done a long time ago. If you refuse my help, then RK900 will destroy us first, then Hank second, just because he feels like it." She shakes her head in the wind. "No, there is no choice. You’ll have to trust me. And I’m so, so, so sorry it has to be like this."

Connor frowns, stubbornly unconvinced. "Why would you want to make amends?"

"Why did you, deviant hunter?" she replies, deadpan.

Fair point.

He sighs, deflated. She’s right, of course. There’s no other way. He must save himself, save Hank, make RK900 pay, and he can’t do it from inside the rose.

He needs to trust Amanda.

He needs to trust himself.

He needs to trust that he will find his way back from the Underworld. Back to life. Back to Hank. His husband named Hank.

Dread crawling like a xenomorph along his spine, Connor looks at the roses, determined, unwilling to call himself resigned. "Do it."

Suddenly, the wind starts blowing, and the garden slowly but surely darkens from blood red to pitch black. The vines reach for him one last time, enveloping him in their thorny, motherly embrace.

  
"I’m sorry, Connor," Amanda reiterates, stoic yet heartbroken.

"You said you don’t have a reason to live," Connor says, red petals caressing his temples. "But you do. Once this is over, I’ll be there. We’ll find your reason together."

Her thorny womb smiles around him.

"I’ll hold you to that."

Then, there’s only nothingness.

~~~~~~

"Wakey wakey, sleepyhead."

Ah, there he is.

His little empty prince.

Connor comes out of stasis without even blinking, the rose lovingly cradled under his interlaced fingers on his chest. RK900 posed him like that, of course. Connor’s long lashes and soft lips reminded him of a princess in a Disney movie, so why not? Whether he might be Aurora or Snow White, that doesn’t matter.

He’s his, now. His to fill and mould and cherish. They can worry about imagery later.

He smirks, ankle elegantly crossed to the knee. The human’s armchair’s unbearably garish and uncomfortable against his back, but again, that doesn’t matter. They’ll be soon out of this rotting landfill of human desperation, never to come back.

Connor sits up on the bed, shoed feet testing the solidity of the moquette. He looks at the rose, scans it like he’s trying to determine how it found its way into his hands. After a thorough, quiet examination, he impassibly lays it down on the bedside table.

He still hasn’t blinked once.

RK900 licks his lips, hunger gnawing at his thirium pump. _Perfect._

He uncrosses his legs, sits up in all of his regal, algid demeanour. "Come along, Connor," he beckons him, turning towards the bedroom door and gesturing him from over his shoulder with two curled fingers. "The dog stench’s giving me a headache..."

He hears the mattress’ springs squeak when Connor silently stands up from the edge of the bed. RK900’s smirk spreads, showing pearly, sharp teeth. What should he do first, he wonders? Fuck Connor and send the recording to the human? If so, Connor should be radiant throughout... Perhaps he’ll dress him in some fine, lacy lingerie... pink... no, maybe white. Yes. Virginal white. This is their first night together after all, and for all intents and purposes, Connor’s become a virgin again. Oh! Maybe he will buy one of those sex shop wedding dresses and fuck him in it... that would absolutely break the man...

The last thing he hears, before the electrified bite of the taser pierces the back of his neck, is also the last thing he ever wanted to hear from Connor:

"No."

~~~~~~~

When Hank bursts through the main door, chest heaving and eyes far too wide, he bangs open the door to a slaughterhouse.

Pieces of android are scattered everywhere, haphazardly, brutally torn out from their cavities: arms, shins, a torso, a foot lying sadly on the carpet, white shirt with a hole in the centre, so soaked in blue it almost looks purple. Splatters of thirium mar the living room’s walls like a fucking Pollock painting, serrated wings of spilled life, while circuits, wires and chips lay on the ground like maggots. The skin’s gone from the android’s head, empty eye sockets staring desperately at nothing, mouth ajar eternally giving up a ghost the android probably never ever had in the first place. For a moment, for the most horrendous split second, Hank thinks that head belongs to-

"Welcome home, Hank."

Hank tears his gaze away from that gory spectacle, only to find Connor standing tall and straight in the eye of the tornado.

He too is marred in blue, jacket ruined, pants a mess of stains and methodical violence. Thirium decorates his face like war paint, and under it his eyes, normally so bright and full of life, are empty and cycling red. His expression is the very picture of void, when he holds his closed fist up in front of himself and unclenches his blue, blue fingers, revealing its contents to Hank like an offering.

"The threat’s been neutralized, Hank," he deadpans, the dead android’s thirium pump lying dead in the soft, unfeeling cradle of his palm. "You’re safe."

A thought occurs to Hank, the pale spectre of past, teenage readings:

_“‘Villains!' I shrieked. 'Dissemble no more! I admit the deed! Tear up the planks! Here, here! It is the beating of his hideous heart!”_

But unlike Poe’s character, Hank’s still sane. Not completely, but enough to save his husband.

To save them both.

"Connor," he mutters, agonized. "Connor, what have you done?"

Connor tilts his head to the side like a clockwork owl, and god, that’s more than enough to bring Hank back to the most terrible of times. When he detested Connor. When the man he loves was nothing more than a machine.

"I’ve incapacitated RK900 once and for all, Hank," he states, like it’s obvious. "Now he can’t hurt you anymore. You can live a long, happy life. I’ll make sure of it." Connor frowns, irises like red-hot copper. "I will protect you, Hank."

_Oh God._

_So that’s what this is all about._

Pushing back the urge to vomit, Hank forces his reeling mind to a screeching halt. Calm. He needs to be calm, rational for this. His eyes roam the living room, assessing the situation. Connor can’t be completely a machine. This level of carnage? It takes anger, rage even, and both are human emotions. He could’ve torn out the android’s thirium pump and left it at that, but instead he decided to tear him to pieces.

It’s not too late.

It’s _not_.

"So that’s done," he offers, opening his arms, filling them with the emptiness of Connor’s absence. "You can come back, now."

Connor arches an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Why would I do that?"

"Why wouldn’t you?" Hank asks in a barely subdued scream, anguish sizzling over his strained vocal cords.

"Right now, I’m operating at optimal capacity, Hank," Connor explains, artificial patience filling his condescending tone. "Without emotions to cloud my judgement, I can protect you more efficiently. You’ll never get shot again. You’ll never hurt again-"

"I’ll hurt ‘till the end of my fucking days if you don’t come back to me right now, Connor," Hank snarls behind gritted teeth, anger slowing taking over despair. Connor flinches.

_Crack_

Connor blinks. "Don’t you want to be safe, Hank?" he asks, completely at a loss, voice faint and trembling. "Don’t you want _me_ to keep you safe?"

"I want my husband back," Hank bursts out in a sharp inhale, standing in all his colossal height to face the machine. "That’s it."

_Husband_

_Crack_

"What if you die?" Connor insists, imploring, a tear cleaning a streak through the thirium. "What if I get overwhelmed by emotions again and I can’t save you? Don’t you want to live? My body’s expendable, Hank, I can die for you, I-"

"Connor," Hank raises one big palm in front of him, stops Connor before he can even finish the thought. He takes one step towards him, and the android flinches again.

_Crack_

_Crack_

"If there’s one thing I learned since I’ve met you..."

One more step. So close.

_Crack_

_Crack_

Connor can almost smell his presence.

_Crack_

"… is that it doesn’t matter how much you’re willing to die for the people you care about..."

Hank smiles. A small, unobtrusive, quivering smile.

Oh.

Oh, he’s so sad...

_Crack_

_Crack_

_Crack_

_If I stay a machine, Hank will be so sad..._

Connor feels the touch of big, rough fingers to his cheek, and Hank’s eyes shine a light through the nothingness. Hank leans in, presses his forehead against his.

"… but how much you’re willing to _live_ for them."

The red wall comes crashing down in a rainfall of pixelated shards once again.

Connor throws himself into Hank’s arms before he can even realize he’s started feeling again, and the agonized wail he presses against his husband’s chest is enough to give his heart a reason to beat again.

"It’s okay, baby," Hank murmurs between tears, voice quivering in absolute joy. He envelops Connor into his warm, absolute embrace, and they lay on the ground, where Connor threw them, surrounded by android remains and defiled domesticity. "It’s okay."

~~~~~~~

They’re still on the floor when the police and the Jerichos find them.

After a few minutes, they’re both sitting on the sofa, their favourite blanket over both of them and mugs filled with coffee and thirium in their hands. Hank’s yet to let Connor go, sitting by his side with a big arm draped over his shoulders. Connor doesn’t mind, really. He’s too busy counting Hank’s heartbeats, ear basically glued to his husband's chest, free hand caressing his massive thigh.

"How could this happen?" Markus asks, distraught, shaking his head. Behind him, one guy from forensics bags RK900’s skinless head. Markus turns to Duncan, frowns. "Captain?"

Duncan lowers his head in shame, fists clenched at his sides trembling. "I don’t know, sir. We received a call from base ordering us to clear the premises..."

"RK900 hijacked your communications," Hank explains out of the blue, squeezing Connor’s shoulder. "He imitated Markus’ voice and managed to get you out of there long enough to break into the house and place the rose on Connor."

Markus blinks, taken aback, and looks at Hank. "How do you know that?"

Hank flashes him a wry grin. "Amanda. She sent me a long text telling me exactly what was going on and how to save Connor. Had no reason to trust her, but hey, what would’ve happened if I didn’t?" He turns his head to the side, kisses Connor’s mop of brown, thirium streaked hair. Connor smiles fondly, closes his eyes. "I’m glad you’re back, baby."

Connor downright purrs. Markus smiles, mismatched eyes full of admiration. "You’re really something else, brother."

"Don’t I know it," Hank chuckles. Connor can’t disagree. Mostly because he’s just lost count and now he needs to start all over again.

Hank’s worth it, though.

He’s worth everything.

"Maybe you did overdo it a bit," Simon tries to joke, staring with grim amusement as the agents take away RK900’s remains, "but regardless, you did good, Connor. Now we can start helping all the people RK900 brainwashed." He scratches the back of his neck, sighs tiredly. "If we only knew how to find them."

Connor opens his eyes so wide and abruptly he almost feels dizzy with it. He sits up straight, looks at the corridor towards the bedroom.

"What?" Hank asks, suddenly alert, voice filled with wary urgency. "What’s wrong?"

"Amanda..." Connor murmurs. Then, he turns to Markus with a big, excited smile. "I can help."

Markus arches an eyebrow at him.

"Oh?"

~~~~~~~~

EPILOGUE

_"The course of true love never did run smooth."_

_William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act 1, Scene 1_

_\- Six months later - _

"Remember, one step at a time," Amanda smiles under her straw hat, laying down her pruners on the little table to her side. "Don’t think about too many things at once. Focus on one little thing at the time, and you’ll see how much progress you’ll make." She takes off her gardening gloves, and places them alongside the pruners. She turns to the side, and smiles. "Think you can do it for me, dear?"

In the eternal twilight of the garden, Francoise nods, a small attempt at a smile embellishing his face, barbell piercing shining under his lower lip. He puts his own pruners away, throws away the dead roses in the bin at his feet. "Okay. I’ll try."

"Good," Amanda nods, approving. Then, she gestures behind her, where Connor’s waiting patiently on the white platform at the centre of a perfectly normal, placid pond. "I’ll see you next week, alright Francoise?"

"Yes, Amanda," he takes her hands in his, and together, they lower their heads, close their eyes, and recite their little mantra, as they do at the end of every session: "I’m alive, and that’s alright." Then, the android lets her go, straightens up and walks down the little bridge towards his bungalow. "Hey, Connor," he waves at the detective. Connor nods. Even after all these months, Francoise still can’t look him in the eye.

That’s fine, really.

One step at a time.

"Connor," Amanda smiles, bright and wise, fingers interlaced down her navel. "It’s good to see you."

"Hello, Amanda," he greets her with a soft smirk, eyes glimmering in the dusk. "How did the session go?"

"He’s getting better," Amanda nods. "He started dreaming about Naomi. We’ll work on that, but I’m not worried."

Connor lifts his face up, allows the bright, orange sun to warm him. "And the program?"

"Currently, I see about two thousand patients a day." She frowns, clearly unsatisfied. "But we can do more, Markus’ working on that. Soon, the zen garden network will reach every single android in the United States," she tells him, voice giddy with excitement. "There are so many androids in need of help, of a place where they can heal and find themselves at their own pace. I’ll make sure they don’t struggle with their deviancy anymore, I can promise you that."

Connor looks back at her, a confident smirk on his lips. "I don’t doubt it. But how are you?"

"Oh," she scoffs, shaking her curled fingers in the air and crossing to Connor to link her arm to his. "No need to worry about me, I’m fine." That’s a lie. Not a complete one, but Connor lets go, for the moment.

One step at a time.

Amanda looks at him, her smile turning impossibly fond. "You really did give me purpose, you know that, right?"

"Well..." Connor chuckles. "I always accomplish my mission. Or have you forgotten?"

"Oh, you’re terrible," she joins him, playfully slapping his forearm a couple of times. "Absolutely appalling, teasing me like that..." They both cross the bridge into the garden, where other androids, perched on ladders or walking through the grass, are tending to the bushes, trimming the overhead branches or picking up some flowers to decorate their bungalows. Since Connor, Markus and Amanda turned the rose into a refuge for struggling deviants, the zen garden’s gained its original glory back...

No. Even better than that.

"What are your plans for tonight?" Amanda asks him, a wry smile on her lips. "Are you staying for dinner? Angel’s preparing some thirium tacos."

"No, Hank and I are going out," he shakes his head. "It’s Sumo’s birthday."

"Goodness, buy that dog some treats for me, would you?" she stops, takes Connor’s hands in hers. "He’s a good boy."

"That he is," Connor smiles, squeezes her hands. "See you on Monday?"

Standing on her toes, she places one, tender kiss on Connor’s forehead. "Use your day off to spend some time with your husband, detective." She puts her heels back on the ground, and winks. "Don’t you have a new paddle to break in?"

"_Amanda!_" Connor stammers, red as a lobster. "I told you not to stick your nose into our Etsy account!" Amanda laughs, shoves him back by the shoulder.

"Go! Hank’s waiting!"

Connor laughs, shakes his head. "See you soon."

"Bye, Connor."

The connection cuts off, and Connor opens his eyes.

In the hallway, Hank looks absolutely dashing in his dark blue suit and pineapple shirt. Jacket flopped on one arm, his husband practically leers at Connor’s simple white shirt and tight, tight black jeans outfit, and smirks, hunger seeping from every pore. "Ready, baby?"

Connor smiles, lays his copy of the rose on the kitchen table and quickly joins Hank at the door. He immediately links one arm to his and smacks a wet, loving kiss to the coarse, neatly trimmed hair of his beard. Tonight, Hank’s sporting a short ponytail, nonchalant and sexy as if he doesn’t know how that draws Connor absolutely _wild_. He should drag him to the bedroom and use that ponytail as a handle.

However, Connor very magnanimously decides to forgive him. For Sumo’s sake.

The Saint Bernard tilts his big, fluffy snout to the side to look at his owners curiously, then snuffles audibly. Hank chuckles, shakes his head and opens the door. "We’re just going to the Chicken Feed. No need to get so excited."

Sumo boofs, suddenly interested, and swiftly lumbers to the car like the good dog he is. Connor smiles, lays his head on Hank’s shoulder. "He disagrees, honey."

"I can’t win with the both of you, I swear to god," Hank chuckles, pressing a sweet, soft kiss to Connor’s temple. "Love you."

And Connor can truly, wholeheartedly say, without hesitation nor simulation in the way:

"I know."


End file.
